


Catch a Falling Star

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Smut, Protective Castiel, Reunions, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-11-30 13:54:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11464968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Soulmate AU mini-series: What if angels didn’t end up just anywhere when they are banished by sigils…what if sometimes they end up exactly where they need to be? Turns out you are Castiel’s grounding stone, and it’s more complicated than either of you realizes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparks fly when you meet a mysterious blue-eyed stranger in the most unexpected of places.

Few sensations exist in creation more unpleasant than the vision blurring stomach churning skin chaffing whirlwind spin of an angel’s vessel hurtling uncontrollably through physical space upon being banished by means of blood sigil. Few sensations, that is, save for the fireball crash landing which invariably follows such expulsions. There are archived plans for a Coney Island roller coaster gradually disintegrating in a drawer at the New York City Public Library which, if the project reached fruition, might have come close to replicating the experience. However, engineers could never work out adequate safety measures to protect the rocketing passengers from being jettisoned into oblivion at the kinetic peaks.

Castiel, like most vessel-bound wavelengths of celestial intent in his current predicament, hadn’t expected to find himself the equivalent of an angelic slingshot just now. Unfortunately, and also fortunately for him, the sensation was not entirely unfamiliar and he knew panicking would accomplish nothing. Practice taught him that accepting fate and relaxing usually made for a slightly softer landing.

Flung on an unknown trajectory, he spent the arduous milliseconds until the inevitable fiery finale pondering where he’d end up this time, in what depleted state he would find his grace from the strain of maintaining the posterity of his burning vessel, and how he would go about getting back to the Winchesters.

Dropping out of the sky near a bus stop was always a welcome convenience, albeit an unsettling occurrence for waiting passengers to witness. For starters, it made for extremely awkward conversation for an angel who already found small-talk especially burdensome. He spared one tenth of a nanosecond to roll his remarkable blue eyes cynically at the thought that at one time, before his wings were clipped, the sluggish prospect of taking a bus as a means of transport would have brought a disdainful snarl to his lips rather than a hopeful curl. He’d fallen far from Heaven indeed.

The ground rose up to greet him all at once and with unmitigated muddy enthusiasm. He lay there, vessel smoldering and hissing in the damp mossy slick of earth beside a nondescript lake, gathering his bearings and gazing up at the star spattered sky. A single bold cricket tentatively emerged from hiding after the holy shockwave and broke into song; others quickly joined to form a chorus.

Brashly throwing open the front door of the dilapidated clapboard-sided house outside Portland, Oregon a mere moment ago as Sam and Dean circled around to the rear, daylight still reigned overhead in the grey moisture-sodden clouds. He had time to observe little else except for the peeling faded one-time yellow scalloped wallpaper when the curse screeching raven-haired demon inside slammed her bloodied palm to a sigil painted thereupon, unceremoniously and frankly quite rudely cancelling the seraph out of the equation of her manifest demise.

It occurred to him from the dusky pitch of night hanging overhead and the position of the constellation humanity fondly dubbed Cassiopeia relative to the northern horizon that he presently reclined somewhere in upstate New York and would not be returning with any speed whatsoever to assist the Winchesters in this particular hunt.

The incessant buzz of his mud-caked inner trench coat pocket prompted him to sit up after several minutes to go fishing for his phone. The same pocket happened to also be mud-filled. He unsuccessfully smeared the screen with the back of his mud-soaked sleeve. Grunting in vexation, he located a pristine white expanse of shirt tucked below his left armpit and wiped the screen clean there.

Several texts from Dean lit up, in order:

_Where are you? Demon is toast. Didn’t have the info we needed._

_Saw the sigil. Not awesome._

_If you’re somewhere sunny, send us a postcard. It’s raining here, again. Freaking Portland man. Heading home._

_Hey, if you happen to be near a supermarket, I forgot the TP situation in the bunker reached critical levels before we left for this hunt. You’d be saving our actual asses if you get back there before us. Sam likes Charmin._

_Seriously, where are you?_

_YOU OKAY?_

“You okay?” your question simultaneously carried aloft on the evening breeze as the angel scanned the message from Dean.

“What?” Cas turned over his phone, perplexed at never having noticed this particular feature, and still somewhat disoriented by his involuntary voyage.

“I said, are you okay?”

The angel scrambled to stand on the slippery slope of the embankment to confront your seemingly disembodied voice emanating from the periphery of a nearby stand of cottonwood trees. He managed, with some effort and a lot of displaced gravel, to rise to one knee with the other leg splayed sideways, foot jutting out into the cool clear water, creating an ever-expanding series of ripples across the otherwise glassy surface of the lake. “I’m fine,” he sounded less pathetic than he appeared, but his husky inflection suggested he was not wholly convinced of his fineness.

“That’s great,” you laughed, gesturing in his general direction as you approached from the edge of trees, “because you look terrible.”

Chin collapsing to chest, he glanced contemplatively down at himself, the faintest glimmer of shared amusement at fathoming the full extent of his filthy state twinkling in his eyes and tickling at his throat to materialize as a light chuckle, “Yes, I suppose I do.”

“I didn’t think anyone was staying at the Holmes’ place this weekend.”

He followed your flitting gaze to the tiny cottage perched near the lake’s edge several hundred feet down the shore.

“So, how long you renting?” you prattled, nervous about the stranger and your isolation and not wanting your nerves to show.

Cas heard the apprehension in the rapid sing-song cadence of your words. He didn’t have a good answer. It didn’t occur to him to lie, so he didn’t. “I’m not,” he offered with the accompaniment of an apologetic shrug.

“What’d you do, drop out of the sky or something?” you joked, daring another step closer, deciding he didn’t look anything like the insane axe-wielding clown serial killers everyone talks about around late night campfires. He didn’t appear to be a threat to anything but the established conventions of cleanliness.

“Something like that,” he grunted, pressing a palm flat into the sticky mud and stumbling upright. Toes flexing within the sopping sock in his flooded right boot, he squinted at you in the dim light, endeavoring to place the familiarity of the warm radiance emanating from your soul. “Could you point me toward the nearest bus stop?” he inquired, choosing to suppress the nagging feeling of recognition in favor of a concrete concept he understood – getting home.

“Um,” mumbling, taken aback by the stunning shade of blue intensely aimed your way, you waved between the trees and the cottage behind you, “it’s a short hike up to the main road, and then a little over 16 miles north to town. There’s a depot by the post office.”

“Thank you,” he nodded politely, marching past you, every other footfall a sloshing wet squish.

“They won’t, uh, they won’t be open ‘til morning,” you stammered, ambling after him, all at once hit with an overwhelming desire for him to remain.

“I’m tremendously patient,” he murmured over his shoulder, abruptly stopping mid-stride to spin around, remembering Dean’s request. “By any chance, is there a supermarket in town? Or a drugstore?”

“You could stay the night with me,” you spat out, catching up with him, the proposition stunning both the angel and yourself to taciturn silence. The shadow of night concealed the glowing pink blush of your cheeks as you dug the point of your sneaker into the dirt, “I mean, you know, to get cleaned up and have somewhere dry to sleep. It’s my uncle’s place, I’m sure there’s something in the closet that will fit you.”

He nodded assent, feet magnetically following your lead before he was consciously aware he’d decided to accept your invitation.

After much convincing and promises not to misplace his trench coat as he’d lost one in a laundry incident in the past, he agreed to part with his soiled clothing for you to wash, donning a flannel shirt even a Winchester would consider too garish to wear in public and too snug-in-the-thighs dark brown corduroy pants after he showered.

Perched on the edge of the couch as though he was afraid to get comfortable, neatly stacked pile of sheets, blanket, and pillow beside him, he scrutinized the untouched cup of tea balanced in his fingertips.

“Did you see that meteor? I’ve never seen one like it!” you inquired from your vantage point on the chair opposite. “Lit up the whole horizon with this sonic sounding boom. I swear it fell right in the lake! I was out looking for it when I came across you.”

“I imagine it was quite a sight,” Cas brought the cup to his lips, swallowing his guilt with a sip of the tepid liquid, deflecting your indirect attempt to kindle conversation revolving around his reasons for being out at night on private property dressed in a suit and tie partaking of a mud bath. Regard shifting furtively to your stymied glare, he proceeded to empty the cup.

“Yes, quite,” you muttered. Huffing defeat at the run-around, you hopped up and reached for the cup. Your fingers caressed his, a spark igniting between you. You flinched at the electric surge rushing up your arm, eyes flashing wide to meet his startled blues.

The cup careened to the floor, bouncing without breaking on the thick pile of the carpet.

“Heh, static,” you laughed uneasily, bending to retrieve the errant cup, brushing the giddy stampeding of your heart and fluttering of your stomach off as the result of simple surprise, “must be a storm brewing outside.”

Curiously flexing his tingling fingers, Cas watched in rapt awe as you retreated to the kitchen.

“I can drive you to town in the morning,” you shouted from the sink, setting to work washing the dishes you’d deserted after dinner in favor of stargazing, “I have a few errands to run there myself.”

The sound of an engine turning over and revving in the driveway prompted your hasty return to the living room. The couch was vacant – your car keys notably missing from the whimsical key-shaped plaque mounted beside the open front door. By the time you ran out the door, the red glow of brake lights vanished into the dense woods over the top of the drive.

The next morning, when the police arrived to file a report for your stolen vehicle, you would discover the mysterious stranger with the captivating blue eyes had not fled so fast as to forget his precious half-dried trench coat. Luckily, he’d abandoned your car in town, parked in accordance with the strict odd-even parking laws directly across from the post office.

You decided not to press charges, explaining to the police it was all a silly misunderstanding – and after all, you didn’t even know his name.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angels are a damned stubborn lot, and in this regard Castiel is no different from his kin.

Man seemingly drops out of the sky. With an absolute disregard for common sense given your lakeside isolation, you invite the peculiar stranger into your home. You convince him to disrobe and shower. Obviously his common sense could also do with some fine tuning – what sensible person follows a random stranger home and immediately consents to getting naked? Alright, it wasn’t immediate, he put up a gallant protest and you routed his muddied multi-layer modesty at every turn until he acquiesced and passed his trench coat, suit, and shoes through the barely cracked door of the bathroom. Perhaps you’ve underestimated your powers of persuasive speech all these years. Perhaps you should consider a new career revolving around this superpower. Lawyer? Lobbyist? Nah.

_Hissssssssss. Beep!_

You serve him tea in a proper porcelain cup and saucer because it seems like the civilized thing to do, and also because it gives you something to do and him something to do because right now you’re wordlessly stealing furtive glances of one another and questioning every life choice you’ve ever made that led you to this awkwardly silent fête. He did look awfully good in those borrowed pants. And what was it about those vivid blue eyes of his that fascinated you so? Was it the way they reflected and refracted the star light? One look into them and you were certain you could chart the infinite depths of those luminescent blue cosmos forever and not stumble twice upon the same breathtaking hue. Man proceeds to vanish, stealing your car and taking it on a joy ride into town, ditching it there in such a manner as to ensure you won’t receive a parking ticket. How…polite? Must have been the tea.

_Hissssssssss. Beep!_

It’s the kind of unbelievable zany tale you share with friends over drinks so they can laugh at your expense and reproach you for being a total nincompoop with zero regard for personal safety – classic fodder for them to dredge up out of the blue at a party years later to embarrass you in front of your date. There it is again, the inescapable blue. Shake it off, move on. He’s long gone. Where were you? Right, being hypothetically painted a fool in front of your date. You laugh. If you’re being completely realistic, it’s to embarrass you in front of their date. _“Let me tell you about this time Y/N invited some strange guy…”_ Not that you’re sharing.

_Hissssssssss. Beep!_

At this point, despite the clerk at the bus depot informing you a man fitting your exact description purchased a one-way ticket to Lebanon, Kansas this morning, you’ve persuaded yourself the whole experience was the result of a bit of indigestion and an over-active imagination. Kansas! It practically reeked of Oz. Blue gingham dress, blue post office logo, clear blue skies – everywhere your thoughts tread twisted into a titanic blue distraction. Throwing your head back, dallying outside the car door, you lost yourself in the uniform cozy blanket of blue atmosphere stretching overhead. Somewhere someone sat behind a curtain having a grand old belly-jiggling guffaw about your life while you sang your off-tune songs on cue and skipped down a yellow-brick road. Brakes squealed. A horn blared. A delicate ivory patina teacup embossed with a pattern of blue periwinkle shattered upon the floor.

_Hissssssssss. Beep!_

The sage green curtain hung around the bed meant to instill an ambiance of warmth in the otherwise icy cold hospital room swooshed aside. Castiel’s steely gaze roamed over the myriad of tubes and wires trailing into and out of your stone-still form, frowning regard settling on the white tape crudely clamping your eyelids shut. Like everything else he touched, he defaulted to the presumption this, too, was his fault. As it so happened in this particular set of circumstances, he wasn’t necessarily absolved of all blame.

_Hissssssssss. Beep!_

The ventilator bellowed another gush of life sustaining oxygen into your lungs. He shouldn’t have fled. The angel was no coward, but when your skin touched his you shocked him, literally and figuratively, to the very core of his existence. He felt the spark in the deepest part of his being, in the pure angelic heart created especially by his father to fiercely love humanity above all else and without limits that set him so starkly apart from his kin, the unique element of his creation that doubt and regret had not yet sullied no matter how unforgivable his past actions or how epically he failed in the skewed summation he maintained regarding himself. Nothing and no one had affected an influence there, until you – and he yearned for more.

_Hissssssssss. Beep!_

As a steadfast rule, Castiel wanted nothing for himself. Averting the apocalypse, the multiple falls, the grabs for power, the sacrifices, each and every enterprise set in motion in the name of helping others – humanity, his kin, and above all the Winchester brothers who redefined his notion of family. He viewed himself as useful, but ultimately expendable – the tinder wood to ignite larger fires. Auspiciously, someone sympathetic above his pay grade viewed him in a far more indispensable light, resurrecting him from the ashes time and again. Unsurprisingly, when threatened with the prospect of selfish desire kindling in his own heart – a great and terrible unknown burning want of something solely for himself, the need presenting as utterly foreign, abhorrent even, to his abstaining nature – he ran for the hills.

_Hissssssssss. Beep!_

At the bus station in Cleveland, he disembarked – the action not so much born of a cognizant plan to buy a return ticket to Seneca Lake to see you again, but more out of a precipitous and overwhelming need for breathing space to lessen the tightness seizing his chest. He found the acute need for oxygen bizarre since he didn’t need to breath in the first place – the involuntary rise and fall of his chest thus far a mere remnant of muscle memory tickling at the neurons of his vessel. Entertaining and committing to the act of boarding a bus back to New York seemed to ease the unrelenting vice grip on his ribcage.

_Hissssssssss. Beep!_

Now that he stood at your bedside and saw the machines keeping you alive, now that he had time to objectively examine and interpret his impressions – now, it all made sense. As an angel, with his abject history of imperfect and pitiable glory, he never ventured to hope in all of his father’s creation there existed a heart cast expressly for him, least of all a human heart. Even amongst humans a match such as this was so exceedingly rare as to be the stuff of legend. He daren’t think the word for fear his suspicions were wrong…or right.

_Hissssssssss. Beep!_

“Friend or family?”

Castiel angled his neck to acknowledge the young woman in the sterile white coat with a black stethoscope slung around her neck positioned at his elbow. “Neither,” he answered, focus gliding again to your frame. His frown deepened at observing your limp fingers jammed uncomfortably through the side rail of the bed, the result of a nurse’s haste in changing a dressing. He badly wanted to reach out, move them, wake you, apologize. A combination of apprehension and wonder incapacitated him.

“Oh…well, such a shame,” the doctor followed the target of his furrowed brow to your crumpled hand, taking it upon herself to gently reposition it to lay flat, “hit and run in front of the post office this morning. Witnesses said Y/N just stopped in the middle of the street to stare up at something in the sky. Massive head trauma. Terrible tragedy.”

_Hissssssssss. Beep!_

“Y/N,” your name spilled from his lips as a reverent whisper. It dawned on him he hadn’t learned your name until now. It hadn’t occurred to him to ask you – he knew you by the dazzling glow of your soul in a universe beyond names and that was enough.

“I was hoping you might know the next of kin. We’re having difficulty locating anyone. You’re the first visitor.”

“She has an uncle,” Cas murmured, disbelieving the insinuation you could possibly be alone in the world, “he has a place on the lake.”

“He passed years ago.”

_Hissssssssss. Beep!_

“Do you mind if I spend a few minutes?” Cas spoke hoarsely, collapsing into the chair beside the bed, knees feeling weak.

“Of course, take all the time you need,” the doctor strode over to the door, pausing to look back pensively. If Castiel had the inclination to read her mind just then, he would have heard her musing as to whether or not he was one of those angel of death characters she’d been hearing about in the news lately. Privately, she thought in your hopeless case it would be a mercy – if no next of kin emerged, it was only a matter of days before they pulled the plug anyway.

_Hissssssssss. Beep!_

Cas enviously watched the last rays of the setting sun reach through the window to warmly caress your cheek. You might be on life support, but your soul still outshone anything in his recollection including the sun itself. 

Other souls in your quandary would have accepted the open summons to escape their physical pain and soar to the blissful embrace of Heaven. You obstinately clung to your shattered body, reliving the night and day on endless loop, floundering in a sea of blue. Your eternal happiness wasn’t in Heaven – he was no longer welcome there.

_Hissssssssss. Beep!_

Cas meditated on the large calloused fists resting uselessly upon his lap, determining his grace still too drained from the banishment by sigil to fully heal you at present. He reached out, palm hesitantly hovering over your pale hand. The strain of resisting the longing to twine his fingers through yours to comfort you trembled every muscle in his suspended arm. He desperately wanted to lose himself in your electric touch. He flinched, afraid that once he submitted to the desire, he’d never be able to let you go. He blockaded his objecting heart inescapably behind all the reasons why he must not be in your life. He wasn’t safe for you, beholding your languishing body that much was clear. He couldn’t protect you, not from himself. He was a storm from which you would find no shelter. He would destroy you. He resolved to touch your skin only once more when the time came to heal you.

_Hissssssssss. Beep!_

He stoically waited for his grace to rally, wincing through a thousand plus a thousand whirring actuations of the ventilator accosting his ears, avoiding the anxious stares and well-meaning inquiries of the nurses and doctors on rounds – wasn’t he thirsty? Hungry? Tired? Despite their best efforts, your condition was rapidly worsening. Was he certain he didn’t know a next of kin? Your kidneys were failing, fluid regurgitating into your lungs, he should think about saying goodbye. Would he like to speak to a grief counselor? There is a chapel on the second floor if he is a praying man. A priest offers last rites as the angel numbly waits.

_Hissssssssss. Beep!_

On the third morning, his silent vigil concluded. He rose purposefully to his feet. Without looking at you – for he’d ceased being able to look at you the night before without weakening his resolve, unable to bear the agony of observing the flickering ebb of your soul as you clawed to hang on against forces grown insistent upon tearing you asunder – he closed his wetly glinting blue eyes and pressed two fingers to your forehead. “I’m sorry Y/N,” the golden glow of his grace flashed bright, bouncing off the glossy white finish of the walls, surging throughout your body, repairing, soothing, rectifying the mortal injury indirectly resulting from his fateful plunge into your peaceful world, “forgive me.” His fingers lingered, heart thrashing wildly against the self-imposed barriers he’d erected, a shaky sigh rattling from his throat, “And please…forget me.”

_Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep…_

The hospital staff tittered amongst themselves, giddy with the miracle of your complete recovery. Congratulatory backslaps and fist bumps resounded here and there in the halls. Miracles have a way of generating a shockwave of infectious hope in their wake.

A lone nursing assistant remembered to ask you in passing during your discharge about the dark-haired man in the tan trench coat who stayed by your side for three days without leaving. Handsome. Hardly said a word. In possession of the saddest blue eyes she ever saw. With a show of such selfless devotion, surely you know him?

No name for this remarkable man stirred in your memory, your tongue poised immobile between your teeth.

“Must have been your guardian angel,” she smiled, ferrying your wheelchair down the hall toward freedom.

“Must have been,” you mimed, chasing a fleeting indigo shadow of memory just out of grasp of your awareness.

Safely home, leaning over the sink, your fingers attached to a favorite ivory colored teacup left to dry in the dish rack. You twirled the cup around and around, mesmerized by the repeating pattern of blue flowers adorning the rim. You thought tonight you would devote a few hours to stargazing – the idea sent a quiver of exhilaration coursing to your limbs.

Castiel failed to eradicate himself from your mind as he intended. After all, how could he erase the cosmic void in your heart which came into existence on the day of your birth – an emptiness prevailing long before you met him, and that he alone was equipped to fill? Even an angel can’t purge something that was never there.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Sam and Dean Winchester, their pesky demonic conundrum, and their antic disposition. In the aftermath of meeting you, Castiel is too obstinate for his own good.

Since his roundabout return to the bunker nearly a week ago, Castiel’s heart and mind relentlessly whirled, tangled at odds in an ever escalating maddeningly discordant fisticuff waltz. The more he tried to forget you, to concentrate his interminable energy on assisting the Winchesters with their demonic snafu, the more he found the allure of your existence an inescapable temptation of thought toward which his heart invariably beat with redoubled determination.

In the process of healing you – his divine grace saturating and reviving your failing organs to rekindle your soul’s fading attachment to the world – he could not avoid an intimate brush with the very essence of your being. Unencumbered by the clarity-muddling nuisance of bodily barriers, your soul resonated with pure joy and recognition at this comforting contact in the midst of profound physical agony, leaving no doubt in either of your hearts as to who he was to you and you to him. He did not anticipate the reverberated thunder of this fleeting but direct incursion upon the carefully constructed battlements shielding his own heart.

Dissolving his defenses as he fought to tear himself from you, you imparted sensations the angel could not shake off, even now, thousands of miles away – an impression of wholeness when he did not realize he was incomplete, and an infinite longing colored by unconditional need. You needed him just as he was – fallen, damaged, brimming with regret, riddled with flaws – for all the reasons he deemed himself most unworthy. Castiel knew what it meant to love and be loved, the Winchesters taught him this important lesson – what he felt for you soared beyond the comparatively simple concept of love.

Had he been a moth, rather than an enduringly pragmatic angel, he’d have already succumbed to a thousand deaths by attraction, paper-thin wings fatally scorched in a graceful and all-consuming flight into an irresistible blaze. He envied the moth at having no option but to blindly follow base instinct into oblivion without fear of the fiery repercussions. Try as he might, Castiel could not envision himself in your life without the terrible tempest of ruin and devastation that doggedly overhung him ultimately extinguishing your flame. Every path of thought led him to the same inevitable heart crushing conclusion.

“I’m getting tired of spending money on these high-brow hotels,” Dean’s husky voice barely registered in the angel’s reverie as the elder Winchester flopped into a chair at the map table beside him, “The concierge at the last one gave me the heebie-jeebies. Those beady eyes of his followed me everywhere like some creepy painting.” Dean shuddered at the recollection.

“It’s not even our money,” Sam countered, tossing his bag on the floor, settling into a chair opposite his brother, “and I’ve seen your growing collection of those little carved hand soaps.”

“That’s not the point,” Dean swung his feet up to rest on the table, vaulting an eyebrow at his brother, questioningly wagging his chin in the direction of the more-unresponsive-and-morose-than-usual seraph, “and besides, they’re adorable.” He fished the newest addition from his inner coat pocket, inspecting the smooth curves of the marbled purple laughing Buddha-shaped soap as he rolled it between his fingertips and brought it to his nose for a deep whiff.

Sam studied the far off bearing of Cas’ gaze and shrugged his ignorance when Dean peered back over at him from smelling his prize.

“Hey, Cas?” Dean prodded. Answered by silence, he leered at his brother, mocking Cas’ gravelly baritone, “Hello Dean, Sam. Any luck locating Crowley’s super-secret demon loot box that you’ve been searching for for weeks?”

Sam grimaced at the crude edge of Dean’s tone.

Dean dropped his feet to the concrete floor, the hard rubber soles of his boots striking with a sharp thud. He inclined forward, stretching his arm across the map table to place the bubbly Buddha in front of the angel and, fittingly, in the vicinity of the Far Eastern world. “Ground control to Major Tom,” he cleared his throat.

Cas remained unaffected, preoccupied by his inner tumult.

“Earth to Castiel?” Sam chimed in.

“Hey, rocket man!” Dean thwacked Cas on the upper arm.

The angel’s blue eyes shifted into focus.

“Where the hell were you?” Dean badgered, staring keenly into his friend’s strained aspect.

Cas blinked, regard flitting between the brothers and landing on the miniature lavender-scented Buddha presently occupying Tibet. “I’ve been here in the bunker waiting for you to return,” he offered matter-of-factly, “for the last 5 days, 9 hours, and 17…”

“Were you daydreaming?” Sam interrupted, brow knitting dubiously.

“I don’t dream,” Cas flatly replied.

“You know, since you got back from New York you’ve had your head in the clouds,” Dean stated. “What kept you there so long anyway?”

“Perhaps if you hadn’t predictably chosen the same type of motel accommodations over the last decade plus,” Cas redirected, demonstrating some part of his awareness had been paying attention to the preceding conversation, “this group of demons would not be able to so accurately anticipate your movements and you would not now have to stay in costlier hotels to hide your whereabouts. You might also consider temporarily switching to a different mode of transportation.”

“Duly noted,” Dean scoffed, “now about New York.”

Cas narrowed his eyes, jaw clenching – he wanted Dean to let the matter go. He also knew from their shared history that Dean would absolutely not let the matter go without some explanation and assurances that Cas wasn’t doing something his friend deemed stupid or rash. The angel exhaled sharply, “I was attending to a personal matter.”

“Uh huh,” Dean smugly meditated, reclining in the chair to again prop his feet on the table, “last check, unless you’re knee-deep in the Heavenly crap show again, Sammy and I are pretty much it when it comes to your personal matters.”

Cas rolled his eyes derisively, although Dean’s assessment was not entirely inaccurate.

“You didn’t text, you didn’t call,” Dean continued, “you were gone for almost a week. What am I supposed to think?”

“Dean,” Sam joked, endeavoring to lighten the mood, “you sound like a clingy girlfriend. Give him a break. It’s not like he’s seeing other hunters.”

“That’s it Sammy! There’s a girl!”

Cas fidgeted uncomfortably and looked away, body language affirming the validity of Dean’s insinuation.

“Who is she?” Dean smirked, victorious.

Cas crossed his arms stiffly across his chest.

“We need details,” Dean waggled his eyebrows, “right Sam?”

“No, we really don’t,” Sam waved his hands to signal he wanted nothing to do with the interrogation.

Cas audibly sighed, glaring at Dean, imploring, “Please Dean, just this one time, leave it be for the simple fact that I’m asking you to.”

Dean misjudged the dourness of the expression darkening the angel’s eyes and the solemnity of his appeal, opening his mouth again to pester his friend for more information.

“She’s my Lisa,” Cas growled under his breath before Dean could utter a single syllable. He had not forgotten Dean’s explicit warning never to mention the name again of the woman Dean loved – the woman nearly killed by association when the hunter tried to hold on to a passing shot at an ordinary life once upon a time. Cas elected to bring her up, not to hurt Dean, but in hopes of imbuing a seriousness to his own request which Dean might understand with as few words as possible. The angel miscalculated that enough time had passed for her name not to provoke a response other than one of intense rage.

Instantly explosively charged, Dean shoved back from the table. Overturning his chair, sending it skittering across the floor, he bolted upright to grab the angel roughly by the collar and haul him to his feet.

Cas chose not to protest, figuring Dean owed him far worse than a mild bit of manhandling on that count.

“Guys!” Sam sprinted around the table. “Enough!” he demanded, wedging an elbow between them to pry Dean’s clamped fingers from Cas’ throat.

Dean reluctantly let go with a frustrated snarl.

Sam nodded an unspoken plea for truce toward the placid angel, turning and leading his grumbling brother in the direction of the kitchen, mumbling that Cas hadn’t meant anything by it.

Castiel retreated to his room via a different hallway.

The tiny Buddha did not approve of anyone’s particular approach to mindfulness, although after the raucous continuous blare of classic rock anthems and non-stop brotherly bickering over the merits of certain songs on the hours-long journey to the bunker, he did relish the silence.

Castiel lay curled in bed on his right side, hugging his knees, his vessel having spontaneously adopted the position during the course of his unavoidable ruminations about you. He couldn’t say, one way or the other, whether it was more or less comfortable than sitting hunched over on the edge of the mattress with his head held in his hands.

A hesitant tapping echoed on the shut door followed closely by a slightly slurred muttering, “Cas, can we talk?”

Cas could say no, but he knew the bull-headed Winchester would eventually open the door regardless. If the situation were reversed, Cas would most certainly do the same. He said nothing. Sitting up, he swung his legs to the floor, silently beginning to count, “One…two…three…four…” The knob rattled – Cas surmised from the modicum of patience required not to burst through the door immediately that Dean would be only moderately inebriated.

The door swung wide. Freckled skin flushed, green eyes dulled, and smelling of at least a third of a bottle of cheap whisky and two, no make that three, beers, Dean rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “You mind if I?” he gestured into the room.

“By all means.”

Dean ambled over to the desk. He disinterestedly straightened the skewed lampshade only to make it worse and then knock the entire lamp off balance trying to fix it, saving it from careening to the floor at the last possible moment. Suspiciously eyeing the lamp, he slid out the chair. Pivoting it on one leg to face the angel, he lowered himself heavily onto the wooden seat. “Love what you’ve done with the place,” he motioned at the stark walls.

Cas’ blue gaze drifted around the bleak space. It was true he hadn’t changed a thing save for the often transient addition of himself since he selected the room as his own. In retrospect, it occurred to him this didn’t reflect too kindly on Sam and Dean’s meaningful invitation for him to live there. He resolved to rectify the sparseness at the next available opportunity. He began to apologize for bringing up Lisa, “Dean, I owe you an apolo-”

“Don’t,” Dean cut him off, holding up a palm, “I overreacted. You asked me nicely to shut my big mouth about it and I didn’t. It’s on me.”

Cas agreed – he thought it best not to say so.

The two friends sat in awkward reflective self-loathing silence until Dean cleared his throat in preparation to speak.

Cas imperceptibly cringed, knowing from experience this could go one of two ways depending on the degree of philosophical Dean felt obliged to wax. Either Dean would bring up something relevant to the dead end case they were working as an excuse to leave, or he would offer the angel sage advice about humanity as if Castiel hadn’t been observing humanity since the dawn of time.

“You know,” Dean fixed his best seriously sincere not-quite-drunk-but-not-exactly-sober gaze on the angel, “you should give that girl a chance.”

Cas peered back impassively – unsolicited advice it was.

“Not that I know anything about her, but I can see the effect she has on you plain as day. You’re shook man. I mean, it’s never going to be cookie cutter, but if you have a shot at happiness, don’t let that go. Hell, you’ve spent your whole life mixed up in fight after fight. Theirs, ours, yours, Heaven’s, Hell’s, ours again. Maybe it’s high time you took a break and tried living on your own terms. Quit being so damned righteous and be a little selfish for a while like the rest of us apes.”

The reference to the uncouth name habitually used by Uriel and Zachariah for humans garnered a rare small smile from the angel.

Dean cracked a waning smile in return, speech dithering, voice faltering, “Look, I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m not saying it’s not something else to regret when it’s gone. But Cas, it’s worth every minute.”

Castiel’s heart drummed rapidly in his chest, empathizing with Dean’s words. Yet his façade and resolve remained unflappable.

“Right,” Dean wiped his cheek with a flannelled sleeve and slapped his knees to clear the air, “Sam got a lead on that box in Harrisburg. We’re heading out early morning.”

Cas nodded once, “I’ll come with you.”

“Good,” Dean headed for the door, “and if you change your mind, New York isn’t that-”

“I won’t change my mind.”

And Castiel didn’t change his mind – not while brooding in the backseat of the Impala tuning the brothers out in a deific trial of both patience and endurance on the uneventful 19-hour drive to Pennsylvania.

Not when he brazenly forayed into the offices of the abandoned coal factory ahead of the brothers and was taken off-guard by two angel blade-wielding demons who seemed to be expecting his arrival and had decorated the walls accordingly with Enochian power inhibiting symbols.

Not when the second bulkier demon got the upper hand, twisting Cas’ arms uselessly behind his back while his compatriot buried a blade deep enough in his shoulder for the angel to bleed grace.

Not even when the same smug demon delved his fingers into the gaping wound, using Cas’ seeping blood to complete the décor with an angelic banishment sigil painted crimson on an otherwise barren exposed steel beam. Cas didn’t change his mind, but he passingly wondered why they were bothering with the theatrics of a banishment sigil when they could easily end him then and there.

Mind still obstinately made up, the angel managed to writhe free when the far door crashed inward, palm swiftly diving across his injured shoulder to press the brute demon’s forehead.

With Cas indisposed mid-smiting, the partner demon sliced his own palm, slapping it to the sigil to dismiss the weak and wounded angel from the confrontation just as Sam and Dean burst onto the blindingly bright scene.

Blazing on an unknown course through the upper atmosphere for the second time in as many weeks, Castiel succeeded in hanging on to the unraveling thread of consciousness long enough to keep his vessel from burning to ash. Crumpled in a steaming carbon-smudged trench-coated heap like a spent shell casing, he peered out into the unknown swirling murky darkness. His vision bleared by a familiar approaching glow. Bathed in the relief of this radiant light, he closed his eyes, welcoming the serenity only a moth freely flying into flame understands.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel and the reader are reunited, and it feels so fluffing good.

Harbinger of the oppressively rising temperature outside, a pearlescent green cicada, having that very morning exhaustively fought his way from the black loamy embrace of the Earth after a long slumber to shed his skin and unfold translucent purple-veined wings to the light of day, perched in the uppermost branches of a cottonwood vociferously worshipping the sun. A whispering breeze, freshened by undulant waters of the lake and heavily perfumed by newly blooming stargazer lilies planted in a mulched bed beneath a wide-open window, rustled sheer white curtains to disturb the still air of the room within. The draft mingled pleasantly with aromatic spices of Ceylon and mint emanating in an ethereal mist from a cup sat on the broad white wash windowsill and the luxuriously piquant scent of citrus lotion warmed upon the fingertips idly circling the delicate porcelain rim of the cup. The page of a book turned, accompanied by an unperturbed exhaling of honeyed breath.

Tucked bare-chested beneath soft linen sheets, swathed in bandages smelling of medicinal antiseptic and cooling liniment, Castiel awoke to the summer serenity of the room. Certain any movement whatsoever would disturb this unblemished dream within which he presently found himself peacefully enveloped, he lay quiet and motionless lest he shatter the prevailing calm.

Detecting a subtle change in the atmosphere, you peered up contemplatively from the hardcover book balanced on your knee to study your convalescing guest. Dark-hair magnificently disheveled, eyelids restfully shuttered by lush lashes, he appeared disappointingly unmoved since the last glance you ventured to steal. Your crestfallen gaze traversed out into the meticulously maintained English style garden beyond the window. The wild blue coneflowers, tamed many years ago in the far corner by persevering fingers, prepared to blossom that afternoon – each verdant stalk stretching toward the sky and leaden with gravid buds. Your attention flitted back to the man laid out on the bed, nagging instinct insisting something was different. Book slipping forgotten from your lap into a nook of the plush cushioned chair, you rose.

Cas did not require sight to perceive your increased proximity. He could clearly envisage the inquisitive glinting of your bright eyes examining him as you stood over his idle vessel. His heartbeat skipped time, hastening to match pace with the dashing thump of yours.

Noting the pernicious fluid draining from his shoulder wound with a frown, you plucked a clean stack of gauze from the bedside table and commenced gingerly picking at the corners of the soiled dressing protecting the muscular joint to loosen and pry it off.

Betraying his indolent guise, the angel winced at the pang of anguish induced by the well-meaning and careful dance of your fingertips.

“I’m sorry!” you gasped, recoiling at his rousing reaction. The squares of gauze scattered soundlessly to the floor in your dismay.

Cas knew no matter how attentive your ministrations, the injury deep enough to strike his grace would remain excruciatingly painful until he regained enough strength to mend the breach of his vessel from within. Eyelids flicking open, undeterred by agony or a one-time stubborn resolve to avoid the perilous incursion into your life, he reached out unhesitatingly for your withdrawing limb, capturing you gently by the wrist. “It’s alright,” he sputtered, voice thick and husky with disuse, “you didn’t hurt me.”

Drifting nearer, you did not resist acquiescing to his adamantly tender grip, or tumbling into the extraordinary and oddly familiar blue depths of his eyes.

“Thank you. Thank you for…,” he stared blankly, jaw tensing in an attempt to formulate a coherent sentiment from a memory he could not summon. The last thing he recalled was tussling with a particularly burly demon, angelic might focusing to smite him when a force outside his control uprooted him from the scene. He couldn’t be certain he’d dispatched the demon before being banished. He was fairly certain the Winchesters were more than capable of handling the mess. He vaguely remembered crashing and, in a dazzlingly bright moment of sheer exhaustion, total vulnerability, and defeat of will, yielding to whatever fate providence deigned to offer up to him just then. And now here he lay – safe, comforted, entrusted to your care, and in precisely the last place he expected to be. He released your wrist, repeating himself for lack of available words, “For…”

“For dragging your half-conscious body out of the woods after you fell out of the sky and landed at my feet?” you supplied, brow fervidly arching. “You’re welcome.”

His expressive blues flew wide in genuine surprise in consideration of how casually you seemed to be taking the odd manner of his arrival.

“You really don’t remember?” you pondered aloud, a charmed smile illuminating your aspect. “Seems like something that’d be hard to forget. Unless, of course, this kind of thing happens to you routinely.”

Any higher reasoning regarding why you’d be better off not knowing him in affront to your deep universal bond was circumvented entirely by his weakened physical state, he mutely dared to hope any and all unfortunate future banishments routinely concluded at your feet.

“You’d better let me get this wound covered again before it gets infected.”

The angel nodded, not protesting your renewed efforts to tend to his shoulder. Seemingly struck speechless in your presence, he didn’t bother to mention the fact that there was no possible risk of infection when you began to swipe the yawning fracture of oozing flesh with betadine. Rather, sheets balled tightly in his fists, he stoically endured the overwhelming stinging discomfort without a single impolite grunt or growl to deter your actions.

“Where are you from anyway?” you asked, attempting to distract him from the burn of antibiotic ointment as you packed the wound.

“Originally?” he spoke through gritted teeth.

“It’s a place to start,” you angled your head sideways to inspect the final tape job, firmly pressing the edges to seal the bandage to his skin. Squinting, finding the result satisfactory, you bit your lower lip with a small nod of approval and removed your hands.

Cas did not fail to notice the cute quirk through his involuntarily tearing vision. Managing a moderately pain free relieved inhalation, he relaxed, retorting with the first thing to spring to mind, “Origins almost always are.”

A cheerful bubbling laugher emerged from your throat as you sat on the edge of the bed, absent-mindedly smoothing the wrinkled sheet beside him with a flattened palm.

The angel could not have prevented the smile drawing across his mouth if his continued angelic existence, nay, the perpetuation of all life in the creation, depended upon it. The sound of your laughter rang out as a delightful symphony in his ears. Deciding he had no reason to lie to you, and determining furthermore that masking his identity with misdirection seemed pointless, he pointed heavenward in answer.

You followed the indicated direction to look up at the rustic shiplap ceiling. A perplexed wrinkle creased your brow. “So…you’re what…an alien?”

“Angel,” he corrected.

“That was my second guess,” you remarked with a teasing grin.

“You don’t seem surprised.” His hand sought yours of its own volition, the rough pads of his fingers settling lightly across your knuckles.

Uncannily composed given his celestial revelation and the strangely comfortable contact between you that should be unnerving given his status as an almost complete stranger but instead felt more natural than any touch you’d experienced before, you met his warm regard. “Well, out of all the extremely fantastical possibilities I imagined while waiting for you to wake up to explain a man falling mostly uninjured out of the sky, you being an angel seems pretty darn ordinary.”

“I suppose it does,” he concurred. Noticing his errant hand, he decided he did not wish to remove it, even when his thumb boldly took it upon itself to trace a small expanding circle into your smooth skin.

“And also, I talked to your friend Dean last night.”

“Oh.” His thumb arrested its endeavor. The angel could not begin to fathom the scope of what Dean may or may not have said to you. The potentials were endless.

You continued, assuaging the angel’s unspoken concern, “He told me your name. Castiel. Cas, for short. He also said you’d probably be fine as long as I absolutely didn’t feed you after midnight. Does he always pepper random corny movie references into serious conversation?”

“It’s a coping mechanism of his. Or maybe a tick. Sometimes I find it hard to discern the difference. The grimmer the circumstances, the funnier he gets. I’m regularly surprised at how effective his brand of humor is at diffusing grave situations.”

“He must have been very worried about you then, because he was hilariously awful,” you noted. “Is he an angel too?”

“No, he’s a h-,” Cas stopped himself from saying hunter. He didn’t see the need to blacken the innocence of your world with knowledge of the monsters inhabiting it – angels were a destructive enough force with which to reckon. “A human. Dean and his brother Sam are the closest thing I have to family.”

“You’re lucky to have them,” you said, smiling.

“What about you, your family?”

Lip quivering, your smile faltered, despair darkening your expression.

Cas squeezed your hand consolingly. Remembering too late the hospital’s inability to locate a next of kin, he apologized, “Y/N, I’m sorry. I-I forgot.”

Withdrawing your hand from his grasp, you regarded him suspiciously, sniffling, “Forgot?”

He guiltily diverted his gaze, instantly recognizing his mistake in your bewildered reaction. After healing you at the hospital, he’d instructed you to forget him, and you had.

“How do you know so much about me?” you stood up from the bed, stepping back warily.

He struggled to sit upright to follow your retreat, clutching at his throbbing shoulder, groaning, “I can explain.”

You denied the tortuously strong inclination to help ease his struggle that yanked furiously at every nerve ending in your trembling frame.

“I was with you,” he strained, “at the hospital.” Giving up, he collapsed back onto the pillow in a fit of agony.

You recalled the passing mention of the man who stayed by your side. Dark hair. Trench coat. Handsome. Sad blue eyes. Your guardian angel according to the orderly who discharged you. Apprehension appeased by this recollection, you sprang forward, perching again on the edge of the bed, swiping the hair from his anguished brow. “You’re the mystery man who kept vigil over me,” you murmured, half-question, half-statement.

He nodded, “Yes, until I had strength enough to save you.”

“Then you’re my…my guardian angel?”

His torso rattled with a shaky remorseful breath, “I’m not. I stayed…I stayed to save you from me.”

“The doctors said my recovery was a miracle. You healed me, didn’t you? Why would I need to be saved from you? You’re the reason I’m alive.”

“You don’t know who I am, _what_ I am to you, do you?” he asked, tilting his chin, appreciating for the first time that perhaps your limited human perception prevented you from hearing his divine heart beat for you as clearly as he distinguished the brilliance of your soul radiating for him.

“What are you talking about?”

He lifted two fingers to your temple, hovering them there, seeking permission to return the memories he took from you and more, “May I show you?”

“Show me what?” Eyelids fluttering shut, you submitted to his touch.

_“Everything.”_

Castiel, angel of the Lord, fallen, fated by design of the universe to be your match, your soulmate, hid nothing of himself from you. He divulged the vast span of his existence in exacting detail from his creation to this very moment. He held back none of the destructive angelic fury, none of the nagging doubts, none of the errors of judgement, none of the innocent or justified deaths on his blood-stained hands, none of the self-righteous indignation, none of the betrayal of friend and foe alike, none of the deep sorrow, none of the profound regret, none of the insurmountable quests for penance he attached to his many failures, none of the unremitting conviction of worthlessness, and none of the intractable belief that once you perceived him for the broken being he was you would have no choice but to reject him.

When you recovered your deluged wits, you found yourself nestled snuggly against the angel, quietly sobbing, arm draped across his torso and secure in his warmly encircling embrace. The last rays of the sinking sun shone through the window, reflecting off the lake to paint vivid shimmering orange-hued swaths of color across the far wall. Sensing your wakefulness, he gently wiped the streaming tears from your cheeks in turn.

You continued to weep – not because you pitied or feared or loathed him. You wept – not because you were overcome by the ferocity and dejection of the angelic maelstrom that he revealed to you. You wept because in himself he did not acknowledge the redemptive qualities of kindness, gentleness, courage, loyalty, strength, perseverance, hope, and the sense of wonder which equally defined him. You wept because the boundless capacity for love anchored within his heart was also the source of his unbearable suffering – he hurt intensely only because he loved deeply. Bearing the weight of this burden alone, it was no wonder to you that he fell from Heaven. Propping yourself up on an elbow to gaze bleary-eyed and undaunted into his fretfully furrowed features, you eased nearer to place a tearful smiling kiss upon his lips.

Castiel did not lose himself in the kiss as the clichéd saying goes. Rather, in the pliant give of your salt-laced lips, the angel found the one thing he’d always been searching for – home.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley magnanimously tips the Winchesters off to a brooding danger regarding their feathered cohort. Cas gets a taste of the ordinary life.

“I’m telling you. Stone cold, it was weird,” Dean alleged, six-pack of ice cold lagers clinking as he set them on the library table. Condensation oozed out onto the polished mahogany surface of the wood from the mushy edges of cardboard. “I mean, we both know I’m hilarious and I didn’t get so much as a single giggle out of her.”

“Yeah,” Sam snorted mockingly, “weird.” Dean garnered minimal sympathy from his brother on account of Sam’s long-suffering endurance of Dean’s habitually incessant jocularity as a method to diffuse stress between hunts. The hilarity, with repeated exposure, had devolved into background noise – something akin to the monotonous humming tread of the Impala’s tires on asphalt rather than humor. Sam thought from Dean’s account of his conversation with you that you sounded like a perfectly reasonable and discerning individual and someone whose personality matched well to the angel’s decidedly temperate wit.

Dean snapped the metal cap off one of the bottles, the sharp wet hiss of pressurization bubbling in the air. He continued speculating, “I’d bet you anything…”

The younger Winchester noticed the dapperly dressed figure idling in the alcove of bookshelves first.

“…she’s…,” Dean trailed off, spying his brother’s annoyed glower.

Crowley made no overt attempt to conceal his presence, taking full advantage of Dean’s self-indulgent deliberation to surprise the brothers. Rule one of ruling: You don’t become King of Hell without taking advantage of every opportunity, however quaint, to vaingloriously make an unannounced entrance.

Sam’s scowl deepened into the line of his brow, his eyes trained cagily on the shamelessly shrugging demon.

Dean followed his brother’s irked gaze and proceeded to choke on his beer, sputtering, “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“Hello boys,” Crowley crooned, a conciliatory smile toying upon his lips. He held up a half-empty carafe of whisky to his nose, disapproval glinting in his piercingly cool mien as he swished the amber liquid around and inhaled. “By the way, where do you keep the good stuff?”

“We don’t,” Dean groused, losing the will to drink his beer.

“Hmm,” Crowley frowned critically, “then how do you expect to entertain your esteemed guests while they wait?”

“We’re not here to provide you with entertainment,” Sam retorted through a clenched jaw, his frustration over their repeatedly failing errand to locate a mysterious all-important treasure chest and deliver it over to the demon boiling his blood.

“I beg to differ, on the whole I find you boys moderately more entertaining than a box of rocks,” Crowley observed smugly, revolving to set the carafe on a side table. “Marginally less intelligent, but you can’t win them all, can you?”

“You leave the door unlocked again?” Dean accused his brother without looking at him.

“No,” Sam’s voice wavered, not actually one-hundred percent certain of his answer, realizing he might have forgotten to lock it after his morning run. They’d exited later from the garage egress so it would have been overlooked. “Maybe?”

“Sammy, how many times do I have to…”

“Kids!” Crowley interrupted. “They grow up so fast, don’t they?” He sauntered into the golden glow of lamplight, burying his hands in his pockets, the glossy sheen of his coat fabric attesting to a keenly refined taste for extravagance. “Speaking of which, I thought you boys could use a cheerful pick-me-up in the form of, well, me. You know, to liven up the empty nest and all.” He flashed an affable grin at the brothers to no avail.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean snarled, shooting a chagrinned _here-we-go-again_ glance in Sam’s direction.

Crowley stepped nearer the table, feigning interest in an open book placed thereupon. Leisurely extricating a hand from the deep recess of his overcoat pocket, stretching out the torture of the brothers’ aggravated anticipation of his reply, his tongue grazed the tip of a pointed finger in preparation to leaf through the brittle yellow folio. “Rumor has it your beloved homing pigeon has flown the coop. Got his feathers all ruffled over some pretty dove in New York,” Crowley elucidated casually, persevering in the pretense of studying the text before him while gauging the brothers’ response to this sensational suggestion regarding their stowaway seraph in his peripheral vision.

“And?” Dean rolled his vibrant green eyes, allowing the tenseness seizing his shoulders to relax.

Sam, too, appeared more at ease – alert scowl dissolving into a passive glare.

Crowley cursed internally, not permitting his chagrin at not being the one to deliver the lurid news to the brothers to shroud his debonair disinterested demeanor. “ _And_ , if you’ve any hope of retrieving my box and holding up your end of our mutually beneficial little arrangement, you’re going to need your goose and his golden halo to fall back in line.”

“We’ll find your stupid box,” Dean grumbled. “And enough with the bird metaphors already, Hitchcock.”

Crowley sneered impudently at Dean.

“How did you hear about Cas anyway?” Sam quizzically arched an eyebrow.

“A sparrow chirped in my ear just before I broke his neck,” Crowley stated ominously. “Between you and me, I’m afraid I’m not the only one who heard him sing this particular song.”

“Who else– son of a!” Dean swore at the currently empty space previously occupied by the now cheekily decamped demon.

Second rule of ruling: Startling arrivals must be punctuated by inconveniently timed exits. In other words, always leave your audience wanting more.

_“Castiel?”_

The convalescent angel felt the light tickle of your fingertips trace beneath the tufts of dark waves ringing his forehead, perceiving your whispered prayer as a resonant echo in the stillness of his mind. Hours ago, the consciousness of his vessel had succumbed to the warmth of the dappled late afternoon sun streaming through the treetops, the rhythmic splashing lap of water on the graveled lake shore, the joyful harmony of bird and insect venerating the glorious day, the comfort of the oversized generously stuffed lounge chair, and most of all to the waking dream of you tending to a shaded patch of the garden tucked below the porch railing. Before his marveling eyes, your nurturing hands patiently teased life itself from the barren soil.

_“Are you awake?”_

A small smile tugged at his mouth. Despite the finally stymied hemorrhage of grace from his shoulder wound and his rapidly recharging vigor, he could not deny an intense fondness for your continued yet wholly unnecessary doting care.

“You’re doing that eyes-closed super-relaxed thing you insist isn’t sleep again,” you noted with a grin, taming the mop of his unruly hair with your fingers, prompting him to open his eyes.

He grasped your dirt-smudged hand, guiding it to his lips to pepper your knuckles with feather-light kisses, appreciating the fact these very same hands that worked tiny miracles in the earth had also sparked something vital in his own heart that bloomed under your tender affection. “Disengaging awareness from my surroundings is the most efficient method by which to expedite my recovery.”

“Uh huh,” you chewed your lower lip skeptically, “it’s uncanny how much that description sounds exactly like sleep.”

Cas’ smile widened, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes, wavering when he spotted his cell phone clutched in your palm.

“It’s Dean,” you offered him the phone, adding, “I don’t think he likes me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” the angel accepted the cell, focus following your retreat back into the yard amidst the rainbow of flourishing flowers. He held the phone up to his ear, an indignant gleam in his expression, “Why don’t you like Y/N?”

“Geez, hello to you too, Cas,” Dean grumbled.

“She thinks you don’t like her,” Cas reiterated, “why?”

“I was under the impression she doesn’t like me.”

“How could she not like you when she doesn’t know you?”

“She doesn’t laugh at my jokes.”

“I don’t laugh at your jokes,” Cas stated matter-of-factly.

After a lapse of silence which prompted the angel to check the screen to ascertain if the call had been dropped, Dean again spoke, “I, uh, yeah, I guess you have a point. And for the record, I never said I didn’t like her. She sounds great Cas, really. Sam and I, we’re both happy for you. I’m glad you took my advice to heart and gave her a chance.”

For friendship’s sake, Cas permitted Dean to believe his drunken anecdote had a smidgeon of influence where it had not, responding, “Me too.” In reality, the angel never had any choice. The stubbornness and insubordination in affront to universal will to delay the inevitable? Certainly. But choice? Never – you were always something that was going to happen to him and he to you.

“So, you, uh, you keeping busy out there?”

“This morning we went to a farmer’s market to purchase seasonal produce. Are you aware there is more than one variety of sweet corn grown for human consumption? There’s silver queen, with pearlescent kernels that are so tender it doesn’t require cooking to render it edible. In the butter and sugar hybrid, the kernels are a mix of white and yellow…”

“Sounds exciting,” Dean’s tone indicated he thought Cas’ bucolic foray sounded like it was the exact opposite of exciting.

“Tonight, Y/N is going to teach me how to make something called some mores.”

“You mean, s’mores?”

“That’s what I said, some mores.”

“No Cas, it’s called a s’more, not some more.” The fleshy smack of a palm striking a forehead sounded in the speaker. Sam could be heard heartily chuckling in the background.

“You’re not making any sense, Dean.” Cas could hear Dean’s eyes sardonically rolling around in their sockets. The disconcerting noise only added to the angel’s bewilderment.

“S. Apostrophe. More,” Sam spelled it out, having seized control of the conversation from his flabbergasted brother.

“Oh,” Cas nodded, “thank you for the clarification, Sam. That explains my inability to find any information regarding them on Google.”

“Anytime, Cas. Have fu…” Sam’s words faded as Dean grabbed the phone again.

“Look, not to rain on the co-ed scout camp jamboree thing you’ve obviously got going on out there, but we thought you should know according to Crowley, who dropped by for a pleasant chat about his stupid freaking box, we’re not the only ones who know about you and Y/N.”

Dean’s warning devastated Cas’ reigning sense of calm, reminding him about the dangerous world lurking beyond your enchanting lakeside realm. Bolting to his feet, he anxiously scanned the garden. Finding you safe and sound stringing a vine up a trellis, he breathed a relieved sigh as he sat on the top stair to better keep a watchful eye on you.

Dean continued, “We got a salt and burn a few states over, then we’re heading your way. So just watch your back until we get there, okay?”

“You don’t have to do that, Dean. You should continue trying to locate Crowley’s box. If he wants it that badly, we can’t let him get ahold of it until we know what it contains.”

“Right,” Dean agreed, “which is why we need your help finding it.”

Cas understood. He understood the Winchesters, his brothers in arms, were coming to take him away from you and that he would go forth willingly by their side as he’d always done. He understood he could stay to defend you within the boundaries of your home, or he could soldier away to better shield your exposure to the gruesome minutiae of the never-ending battle of good versus evil within which he was forever firmly entrenched. “How long until you get here?” he asked Dean, observing your figure meandering up the cobblestone walkway toward him.

“Three days, maybe less if this ghost cooperates,” Dean answered. “You know what, just call it three days. We’ll snag a motel in town if we get there early to stay out of your hair. Enjoy the s’mores.” The call ended.

“Are we expecting visitors?” you bounded up the stairs and settled beside the angel, head dropping to rest on his mended shoulder.

“Sam and Dean will be here in a few days.”

“That’s great!” you beamed, “I can’t wait to meet them. I know how important they are to you.”

Cas wound an arm around your waist, pulling you nearer and planting a kiss on the crown of your head. He inhaled the scent of your hair, honey and lavender riven with the rich loam of the earth and sunshine. For an angel, three days seemed only a slightly longer timeframe than the fleeting span of milliseconds marking the blink of an eye. _It’s worth every minute_ , Dean’s sentiment echoed in his mind.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the hushed calm before the gathering storm, the spark between you and Castiel burns bright.

Castiel inspected the rounded granite stones arranged in a near perfect circle rimming a shallow depression in the earth lined with soot-streaked flat grey pieces of rock. You asked him earlier in the evening if he knew how to build a fire. He answered affirmatively and without a moment’s hesitation. After all, he’d been there when humankind first discovered and tamed fire – it was as simple a concept as any to grasp.

You were disappointed to learn that Neanderthals were not instantly awestruck and captivated by the usefulness of the miraculous leaping hot orange flames and ethereal smoke as you’d always imagined. Rather, Cas informed you they fled, generally en masse, screaming of mind-boggling world-ending horror. It wasn’t until much later they learned to co-exist with a smoldering blaze in what amounted to a functional state of contained terror. To this day, human descendants without a healthy fear of fire and its ability to hungrily consume everything in its path without discrimination exist few and far between – a lingering testament to the powerful influence of first impressions.

The angel pensively walked the perimeter of the pit, realizing he might have overstated his qualifications as, although he understood how to create a fire in theory, he’d never actually had necessity or occasion to build one. He’d observed Sam and Dean construct several impressive conflagrations over the years. However, something on the scale of a hunter’s funeral pyre seemed excessive considering you intended to roast mass-produced puffed pillows of sugar, not incinerate a corpse.

Cushioned plaid wool blanket tucked beneath one arm, bag of marshmallows, bars of chocolate, and packet of graham crackers balanced precariously against your chest, you emerged at the end of the winding path down from the cottage to greet the flummoxed angel and the empty fire pit with a cheerful smile. You found his innate ability to overthink the most routine tasks, often to the point of cataplectic inaction, one of his most endearing qualities.

Just this morning, he spent almost an hour shucking the half dozen ears of corn you selected at the farmer’s market. Amusement over the adorable fixed state of intense concentration his features assumed when assigned the job hindered you from saying anything to deter the deliberateness with which he embarked on the undertaking. Fastidiously peeling the sinewy leaves back individually and painstakingly plucking the inner stringy fibers from between each neat row of kernels, he proudly presented you with the finished product – the most pristinely cleaned ears of corn you’d ever had the honor to plunk into boiling water and then drown in salt and butter before eating.

After his afternoon _definitely-not-a-nap_ and Dean’s phone call, he helped you plant a new bed of flowers inspired by your unusual first encounter – white moonflowers, which only opened at night, fronted by sun-fire coreopsis, a deep red-orange centered yellow flower akin to a brightly burning falling star, and ringed all around with the vivid blue periwinkle that reminded you so much of his eyes. The process of removing the fragile plants from the safety of the greenhouse and wrenching them from their cozy pots by tearing the finely haired roots cementing them to the place they called home since bursting forth from seed greatly dismayed the angel. You assured him the shock of the great outdoors and broken roots were temporary setbacks – that in their new home, freed of the constraints of the tiny pots, the tender flowers would grow stronger and more beautiful than before. This sentiment seemed to quell his reservations and brought a reflective smile to his lips.

Standing opposite the angel now, assessing his total lack of fire making progress and repentant air, you assumed this was another one of those times his overly methodical thought process got the better of him.

He began to confess his miscalculation, “I didn’t…”

“Know where to find the wood?” you interjected, thwarting his attempt at self-blaming awkwardness. Tossing your cargo aside, you rounded the pit to run your hands soothingly down the length of his limply swaying arms, fingers dropping to take up his hands with an encouraging squeeze. “I forgot to mention it’s behind the shed.”

A reassured smile brightened his troubled aspect as you rolled to your tip-toes to kiss his prickly cheek. It hadn’t occurred to him that, of course, you had a wood pile at the ready for such occasions. The notion of preparation was a luxury not often afforded to the angel in his past experience, and certainly not with his usual company of the characteristically _fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants_ Winchesters whose appreciation of preparedness didn’t typically extend beyond the Impala’s weapon-stocked trunk, scrappy boy scout instincts and charm, and a running streak of dumb luck.

“I need to grab the roasting sticks from the shed too. I’ll show you.” Rocking to your heels, you tugged his hand, plunging intrepidly into the darkening dusk.

Gratefully following your lead, he twined his fingers through yours. The thought flitted through his mind, for what must be approaching the hundredth time that day in his estimation – he’d given up on counting – that the ordinary life was a lot harder and more intricately nuanced than people generally led you to believe. And also, that the generous and forbearing quality of your patient nature indubitably exceeded his own.

Crisis of fire successfully averted with a lively crackling blaze, you and Cas nestled side by side on the blanket, skin warmly aglow in the radiant flicker of flame. The moonless night encroached about the edge of the fire’s illuminating reach so blackly it seemed you and the angel were all that existed in the whole of the creation.

You hovered a marshmallow on the end of a long wooden skewer several inches over the lambent pale orange embers, rotating it every few seconds to brown and crisp the outside uniformly.

Castiel watched your every movement in rapt anticipation of mimicking it when it was his turn to try.

The marshmallow faintly began to smoke. “There!” you pronounced, removing the expertly toasted marshmallow from the pit.

Cas obediently held up half a graham cracker layered with a square of chocolate on cue as you’d previously instructed.

You gingerly pushed the blistering hot caramelized crisped shell of sugar onto the proffered base. Grabbing the whole sugary conglomeration between your thumb and forefinger, you smashed the other half of the cracker on top and hummed approvingly as white eddies of liquid marshmallow oozed from the sides. “That…,” you mumbled through an orgasmic mouthful, “is how…,” swallowing thickly with a delighted moan, “you make…,” taking another gooey bite punctuated by an exultant sigh, eyelids fluttering shut in saccharine satisfaction, “the perfect…,” licking your sticky fingers one-by-one, “s’more.”

Cas wordlessly stared at you, eyes widening intense blue scintillating jewels in the dancing firelight. Google hadn’t mentioned anything about the sinful noises made while eating or look of pure ecstasy to expect after consuming a s’more. Perhaps he hadn’t delved deep enough into his research on the matter. Such are the pitfalls of clicking the first link offered up on an internet search.

Passing him the bag of marshmallows, you rosily blushed under his astonished regard. “Your turn,” you intoned coquettishly.

Undeterred by the sensuality of your demonstration, he threaded a marshmallow on the end of the skewer, confidently thrusting it into the fire. The fluffy confection instantly engulfed into a blazing blue charred ball before you could adjust the proximity of his skewer to the white hot cinders. A brooding frown crept across his features to furrow his brow as he grabbed the still smoldering lump. The black shell cracked and exploded into a cascade of molten white goo between his fingertips. He glowered at his hand, countenance reflecting an amalgam of defeat and exasperation for lack of anywhere obvious to dispose of the tacky burnt sugary mess.

You giggled, grasping his wrist, unhesitatingly guiding his fingers to your mouth to lick a dripping hunk of the melted marshmallow off his thumb.

He met your pleased gaze, the shimmering sapphire apertures of his irises eclipsed by the lustful darkness of dilating pupils.

Emboldened by the effect of your initially innocent act, you wrapped your lips around his forefinger, tongue swirling as you slowly sucked the stickiness from the digit, a suggestively salacious groan vibrating in your throat all the while.

He sat frozen, save for a single reflexive twitch of his upper lip.

Dragging your lower lip through your teeth, you tilted your head, guiding his fingers to the hollow of your neck to smear the remaining marshmallow across your exposed skin. Releasing his hand, mouth relaxing into a sensual pout, you arched an enticing brow and waited expectantly.

His focus vacillated between your sultry stare, pink bowed lips, and the inviting glaze of sugar upon your neck as if deciding which was the more tempting indulgence. Adams apple bobbing in a decisively thick gulp, he leaned forward, rough flat tongue malleably grazing the curve of your neck.

The dizzying rush of corporal heat incited by the brisk uptick in the beating of your heart in response to the ministrations of his talented tongue made your head and hide pleasantly buzz – there was none of the uncertain angelic hesitancy you’d anticipated weighing against his zeal. Closing your eyes, a soft moan escaping your pursed lips, you snaked your arms around his shoulders to steady yourself, fingertips scraping lightly at his sensitive nape to tangle in his hair.

Savoring the sweet taste of sugar dissolving on the salty sweat sheening your pulse point, he growled reverently into your heated flesh. The unfathomably deep rumble spurred a delightful quiver to course through your body and curl your toes. Gliding a supportive arm behind your back, he shifted his weight over you to lay you gently beneath him on the sprawling blanket. Breaking from your neck, he paused to smooth the hair from your flushed face and search your features for any sign of reluctance. Finding none in the affectionate curve of your mouth and ardent glinting of your eyes, he captured your lips in tender kiss.

Making love under the glittering canopy of stars, bare flesh glistening as you merged in an unhurried and passionate interlocking of lips, limbs, and bodies in the dimming glow of the firelight, you discovered it was not only your hearts which were made to complement one another – your bodies fit together as well in a perfect puzzle of pleasure. The tuck of your waist, the convex small of your back, and the ample arc of your hips were ideal anchors for his fervently grasping hands. So too did the supple swell of your breast and delicate curve of your neck seamlessly match the camber of his broad palms. Your heels dug lithely into the notched muscular dimples of his hips with the same natural ease with which your trembling fingers fluidly found ready purchase in the strapping sculpt of his shoulders.

For you and Castiel, there was no abrupt ecstatic tumble over the edge of unrestrained release. No desperately needful coming undone in a climax of carnal hedonism. For you and Castiel, breathlessly bound in a lover’s embrace, complete beings for the first time since your individual inceptions, there was a cosmic convergence of universe shuddering bliss which sent a shockwave surging through you both and into the still of night.

At precisely 12:03AM EST on August 11, 2017, United States Geological Survey monitors recorded a mild surface earthquake with a designation of 3.2 on the Richter scale centered 15.7 miles south of Seneca Falls, NY. Several aftershocks are also noted in the official record. The event was wrongly attributed to be routine settling of shale deposits located just below the Earth’s crust.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your idyllic lakeside Eden is inundated by sinister forces.

Three days gone. Four-thousand three-hundred and twenty glorious minutes. Castiel was cognizant of every one of those sacred and dwindling minutes – each filled with affectionate smiling glances, the charming candor of easy laughter, impromptu lakeside adventures, cherished conversations, sublimely intimate explorations, the cozy quietude of undemanding companionship, and above all else a profound sense of happiness unlike anything the angel imagined possible.

As promised, the Winchesters did not disturb this precious time between you. In fact, their simple salt and burn excursion became more involved than they initially estimated, granting the angel another precious night at your side and additional opportunity to muster the verve to explain to you, before the looming arrival of his friends, why he must leave with them. Whenever his thoughts began to drift toward the daunting task, he had a difficult time recalling the extensive list of reasons as to why it would be better to be apart when life seemed so idyllic at present. As a result of this difficulty, he chose to squander very little of your time together, actually none whatsoever, dwelling on the unpleasant subject.

Trudging through the unseasonably cool dewy midnight midst of a copse of tall copper beech, the angel observed a subtle shiver shake your person. Halting your sure-footed eager trek over root, rut, and mossy rock, he compelled your lightly puffing figure toward him.

You protested his well-meaning worry with an exhaled whine – the white wisp suspending briefly in the narrow space between your bodies then withering away into nothingness.

Undeterred by your unconvincing objection, he caught up your icy hands to briskly rub them between his rough palms, generating a pleasantly tingling friction. A smile deepened the creases at the corners of his eyes as he drew your fingers to his lips to breath warmth into the chilled tips. “You’re freezing,” he noted the goosebumps prickling the exposed flesh of your wrists with a fretted brush of his fingertips.

“I’m alright,” you cheerily panted, wriggling your hands free of his grasp and delving them beneath the open flaps of his jacket – a fleece-lined burnt-orange dyed denim relic rescued from the hall closet and the only article of clothing in the whole of the cottage which properly fit the angel’s broad shoulders. The heady scent of cedar permeating the garment agreeably tickled your nose. “Besides, cold nights make for the best star gazing.”

“How do you figure that?” he doubted, wrapping his arms around you and drawing you snugly against his torso to further warm you.

“No clouds blanketing in the heat of the day,” you mumbled into the firm plane of his chest, “which means exceptionally clear skies.”

“And significantly increased risk of hypothermia,” his blue eyes shone their concern for your comparatively delicate human constitution.

“Is that so?” you simpered flippantly. “Then it’s a good thing you’re here to keep me warm.” Sufficiently thawed, you twisted loose from his enfolding embrace to nudge him onward along the darkly ascending trail. “Come on, we’re almost there!”

A hundred yards further on, the rising path spilled into a meadow at the summit of a sloping hill. The lushly grassed clearing, spattered here and there with mounding sprays of wildflowers, afforded an unobstructed view of the northeastern sky all the way to the pale grey bend of the horizon with a breathtaking vantage of the gleaming lake valley. The canvas of stars shone as a vast multitude of twinkling pinpoints on the serene surface of glassy black water stretching into the distance as far as the eye could see.

It was your exultant expression, not the amazing vista, that awed the angel.

“I’ve been coming here for as long as I can remember,” you radiated such pure joy that the cool night air evaporated into a thin swirling mist around you. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes, beautiful,” Cas murmured, focus transfixed wholly upon you.

“And the perfect spot to catch a falling star, or an angel,” you added with an impish grin.

In your beaming smile, he saw the gladness bursting forth from his own heart mirrored in the same way the peaceful lake below resplendently reflected the infinite ancient burning light of the heavens above. Here, with you, right now, he felt everything was as it should be – nothing else in his cumulative experience mattered and he couldn’t say for certain it ever had. He allowed himself blithely to be led to a favored felled tree trunk where he sat cross-legged upon the damp ground with his back reclining against the weather-worn log. Thus situated, he tugged you down to sit within the confines of his heated lap.

Curling up against his cushioning body to gaze up at the glittering expanse of sky, you sighed contentment, “Remember, you need to make a wish on the first shooting star you see.”

Cas’ throat hummed in gravelly acknowledgement. As an angel, he had little use for frivolous romanticisms like wishes, but he greatly enjoyed the titillating effect the naïve notion seemed to have on you.

As if reading his mind, you elaborated, “You know, I used to think wishes were silly, but I make the same one every time.” No sooner had the words softly leapt from your lilting tongue than a brilliant meteor arced across the sky – its tail flaring with a bright blaze of silver dust against the deeply purpled atmosphere.

“What did you wish for?” the angel’s whispered query warmly caressed the column of your throat.

You answered without hesitation, “ _You_. My wish has always been for you.”

Heart happily soaring to heights surpassing the fading vestiges of the meteor’s tail, vision bleared by a brimming swell of tears, Cas pressed a lingering kiss to your flushed cheek, nuzzling his scruffy chin into your neck in loving echo of the sentiment.

Dreamily reaching back, you carded your fingers through his already ruffled hair. “Can we stay here, like this, forever?” you entreated.

In that moment, in the sweeping scope of the universe, Castiel never wished harder for anything more than to be able to tell you yes, yes, we can stay here, like this, forever, and have it be the truth. In place of the reality he refused to admit, he squeezed you a little bit tighter and kept on counting the relentless tick of unspoiled minutes remaining with you.

Unfortunately for you both, reality has an ugly habit of subjugating even the sincerest efforts to suppress it to inopportunely reassert itself – in that precise minute she reared her dreadful attention on your tenderly blossoming starlit devotion.

Unobtrusively observing the scene unfold from the slanting shore of the lake, clad in the suit, tie, and trench coat comfortably familiar to his vessel, Castiel immersed himself in your dream of chasing a splendid long ago August sunset – round child limbs flying wildly to maintain balance, high-pitched squealing laughter piercing the air, plump pink bare feet, soles hardened early in life to the elements of the earth, skillfully negotiated the rocky beach in gleeful pursuit of the sinking orange globe – lost in your sweet dream, the angel didn’t hear the pair of demons approach until they reached the crunchy gravel walkway beneath the porch and trampled the life out of the young flowers rooted below.

“ _Shhh_ …”

You awoke with a flinch to Cas beseeching your silence, his palm planted firmly across your questioningly parted mouth.

His agitated aspect, fraught with alarm, illumined by the golden glimmer of early dawn light arising from the paned window, hovered inches from your sleep-muddled eyes.

You nodded understanding and his hand slipped away.

“Stay here,” his hot breath throbbed forebodingly against your ear as he spoke in an impossibly hushed tone.

Biting the inside of your cheek to curb your desire to cry out and ask what was going on, you bobbed your head again. A smashing of glass emanating from the vicinity of the kitchen told you all you needed to know – someone unwelcome was in the house.

Crawling from the warmth of the tangled sheets of your bed, Cas hastily pulled on his boxers, bending to weed through the discarded heap of clothing to locate his angel blade – the only reminder he kept close these past few days, mainly for want of habit, of the violent danger lurking beyond your piece of Eden. Shining metal weapon held before him, he stealthily slunk to peer through the gap of the ajar door into the dim hall.

Distressed by the deliberate fierce lethality of his movements in stark contrast to the gentle inquisitive calm of his nature you’d come to love, your limbs set aquiver with jolting adrenaline. Soundlessly touching your feet to the plush carpet, you grabbed the nearest available garb to shroud your nakedness. Shrugging into the woolen sweater the angel donned the prior evening, the fibers still smelling strongly of his stormy grace, gave you some small comfort when he disappeared into the hallway.

Creeping along the wall, careful to step over the floor board he recalled was creaky, Castiel tarried at the end of the hall, listening to the frank banter of the demons as they sifted through the cupboards.

“Did he say what it looks like?” the red-bearded demon picked up a flour canister and dumped the fine powder on the floor.

“Some kind of container. I think he called it a vessel,” his blonde-haired female associate walked through the resultant billowing white cloud and squatted to yank open the doors below the sink.

“But what does it _look_ like?” he prodded, disinterestedly tilting the sugar jar.

“I don’t know. You know how it is when he’s in one of his moods. One too many questions and you’re smoke,” she threw her hands into the air.

“How does he expect us to produce results when we don’t even know what we’re looking for?”

“Just quit asking stupid questions and find it. He said it’s definitely here. We know what happened to the others,” she emptied the clattering contents of the silverware drawer into the sink and stirred the wreckage with a large wooden spoon. “Well, I mean, we really don’t know what happened, but I have a pretty good guess. And it’s not pretty.”

The red-bearded demon stood frozen except for the fingers fumbling frantically in his pockets.

“Why are you just standing there like an idiot?” she scowled, straightening up.

He produced a corked and fluted vial churning with a viscous red fluid, a wrinkled parchment, and, referencing the scroll upon the crumpled paper between syllables, began phonetically and quite badly enunciating something in Enochian.

Castiel elected to lunge at the female demon’s vulnerably turned back.

She ducked, spinning and dodging the assault.

Cas’ momentum carried him careening into the counter. Pushing off the sink with a hoarse growl, he pivoted directly into the biting sting of brass grace-subduing etched knuckles cracking squarely across his jaw. Stumbling from the dazing blow and the influence of the spoken spell, the angel buckled heavily to his knees.

Pouring the thick ruddy liquid out of the glass flask and onto his fingers, the red-bearded demon swiftly commenced to painting a banishment sigil on the far wall.

Only Castiel, to his dismay, saw your frightened figure emerge from the shadowy recesses of the hall. Bolstered by your imminent peril, he fought to rise.

“The not-so-great Castiel!” the blonde-haired demon leered over him, celebrating the succor of success in her spell-assisted assault against the notorious fallen seraph. Shoving him coarsely back to his knees, she kicked the heavenly weapon from his clenched fist, sending it skittering sidelong across the tiled floor to settle at your bare feet. “I’ve a mind to bleed your grace for good.”

“You know what the boss said,” the red-bearded demon tersely reminded over his shoulder.

“Oh, so you were paying attention to that part of our orders now, were you?” she snapped. Her face shined electrically, veiny and orange, a silent scream trapped in her gaping mouth as you slipped the celestially sharp blade effortlessly through her ribcage. She crumpled flaccidly to the floor.

Cas also suffered the plunge of the blade – heart cleaved deeply with a mortal pang of guilt. Not only had he summarily failed in your defense, he had unforgivably failed to protect the sanctity of your unblemished soul – a soul shaped to nurture life, not to take it. Remorse dimming his blue eyes, he removed the blade from your violently shaking bloodied grasp, “I’m sorry Y/N. I’m so sorry.”

Tears streaming your cheeks, you collapsed, sobbing, into his arms.

Over an unbroken chant of self-effacing assorted expletives, the red-bearded demon finished his work on the sigil.

“It’s going to be okay,” Cas knew the situation was about to become as far removed from okay as okay can get. Too physically weakened by the impact of the spell to attempt to stop him, he watched the demon slice a gash across his palm and raise his bleeding hand to the wall to execute the banishment.

Burying his chin into your hair, the angel summoned every ounce of strength he possessed to hold you tight. “It’s okay,” he said the words again in an effort to make them true.

Nothing happened.

The demon slapped his palm wetly to the center of the perfectly produced sigil a second and third time to no avail. Snorting in genuine surprise, he exchanged a stupefied look with the equally stunned seraph before proceeding to bolt directly for the exit. Leaping over his fallen comrade in his scurrying flight, he wrenched the door wide and collided headlong into Sam and Dean Winchester.

Throttling the wriggling, groaning, mercy-begging demon roughly by the collar, Dean scoffed at his brother, “And you said it was too early to show up unannounced.”

“You guys okay?” Sam conveyed his lumbering frame past the demon’s writhing limbs to enter the ransacked room.

Cas staggered to his feet, lifting your shock wilted and unconscious form up with him. “No,” he despondently replied. Cradling your darkened soul in his arms, grief etching deep lines in his grim features, he conceded to reality for the first time in nearly 4 days.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchesters locate Crowley’s elusive mystery box, and the powerful secret it contains is heartbreaking.

In the end, no words remain. There is no spoken solace to share, nor any valediction to express the unspeakable. No words exist. There is only the merciless march of time – marked by a luminous red-orange summer sun eternally devoured by the horizon – the blotchy orange and purpled hue of lost day bruising the clouds and rippling reflected in the lake in reminiscence of a passionately blazing light forever fated to fade to night.

“It’s time,” Sam murmured softly, apologetically – ever the more tactful brother. He towered, sentinel on the shore, gazing out onto the huddled forms of you and the angel watching the sunset at water’s edge. Fists jammed into his jacket pockets, he futilely sought amongst the lint therein the comfort none of you would find this night.

Sam’s voice reverberated hollowly in Castiel’s heart. To be entirely accurate given the circumstances, what the hunter should have said was, specifically, _your time together is ending_. The angel made no motion in the slightest to move.

“Castiel,” the name arose a quivering whisper in your throat – the utterance burdened with one last prayerful request: _I can’t do this alone. Lend me your strength. Let me lean on you. Hold me up when my legs falter. Take my hand, my brave and beautiful angel, and we will carry each other_.

Calloused trembling fingers laced with yours, he clung unfailingly to you.

Rising together, you numbly traversed the winding path to the cottage. Delaying for a moment in the glowing wash of lamp light beneath the porch, you ignored the looming black shades of the brothers within beckoning your haste. Stooping, you plucked a delicate stem of periwinkle, undamaged by the careless tread of demons that morning, from the ground. You secured the blossoming blue bunch of petals in the button hole of the angel’s trench coat and straightened the silken blue striped knot of his tie. Fresh tears stinging your eyes, you gazed into the misty blue ocean of his melancholy aspect.

_Dark hair. Trench coat. Handsome. The saddest blue eyes…_

The hospital description flitted in your memory. Yet for a time, those eyes had gleamed with shared joy and immeasurable love. Expressively curious, wide in wonderment, dotingly soft, amorously dilated, crinkled in amusement – you longed for anything but this bleak sadness now dimming his expression.

“Y/N, I…” Cas gathered your hands in his, drawing them to rest over his heart. Tears dampening his eyes, he leaned in to kiss your forehead – balanced at the very brink of heartbreak, there was nothing left for him to say.

Dean’s presence on the landing of the porch stair and the single grim nod of his head denoted the rapidly diminishing window of opportunity to complete the ritual.

Lips lingering on your brow, the angel closed his eyes, pleading with the departed sun, with his absent father, with the universe itself, with anyone out there who cared to listen for _one more minute_.

* * * * *

“That limey little bastard!” Dean roared furiously, slamming a balled fist on the wooden planked table with a sharp crack.

Like Cas, Sam and Dean, having been informed of the demons’ pre-attack dialogue, concluded that the description of the moody boss the demons referred to uncannily applied to a certain self-serving melodramatic King of Hell they collectively loved to hate.

“What I don’t get is why they banished Cas every time we got close?” Sam pondered aloud, brow knotted in thought. “But then at the same time Crowley kept insisting we needed Cas’ help to locate the box.”

“Maybe keeping Cas close was also a handy way of getting rid of him when push came to shove?” Dean speculated.

“That makes sense,” Cas interjected, “Crowley knows banishment is extremely taxing and a convenient way to temporarily dispose of an angel. Each group of demons we encountered was armed with the knowledge and means to subdue my angelic advantage.” Inclining his square jaw toward the failed banishment sigil drawn on the wall, he continued, “The blood they used there is mine. I don’t know how he obtained it, but to go to such extreme lengths, whatever he seeks must be extremely valuable. There is no more powerful method aside from death to dispatch of me. But then why not simply kill me? Why instruct the demons to spare my life?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time he’s exposed a soft spot for one of us,” Sam suggested, rapping his knuckles pointedly on the table.

“Yeah, right. Deep down in that shriveled black heart he’s a real teddy bear,” Dean snorted a laugh, throwing his hands up in the air. “You won’t convince me that him wanting Cas alive is for any reason other than Crowley’s own demented benefit.”

“And what makes him think the box is here anyway?” Sam quirked an inquiring eyebrow, coolly considering the mess of the kitchen. “We must be missing something.”

Padding quietly into the room, eyes red and puffy, you stopped to peer between the openly agitated bearing of Dean and the more reserved brooding of Sam. You had no trouble identifying them as the Winchesters based on Cas’ colorful descriptions. Your focus settled on the sullen form of the seraph slouching against the counter.

“Y/N, you’re awake,” his stature straightened, blue eyes regarding you with concern. Propelling off the counter’s edge, he strode forward to meet you.

Your notice followed the flapping hem of his trench coat, countenance contorting in dread as he avoided stepping in the congealed pool of blood surreally corralled within the spilled flour where hours ago you had stabbed and killed the demon.

Grasping your shoulder, Cas turned you away from the gory reminder and into his calming embrace. Smoothing your hair, palm sliding to reassuringly rub your back, he drew you firmly into his chest. His lips and unshaven chin brushed the sensitive skin of your neck as he spoke, “It’s alright, I’ve got you. The demons are gone. Sam and Dean are here now.”

You shuddered in his encircling arms, spluttering, “Cas, they looked like people. Why did they look like regular people?” You choked on the sickening lump rising in your throat, “She was so…so…human.” In the sum of his existence laid bare to you, Castiel had shown you demons in their true form, as a celestial being perceives them, and they were truly the stuff of nightmares – unmistakably twisted damnable corrupt abominations in no way resembling a human.

Clasping your arms to steady your swaying figure, Cas angled backward to stare earnestly into your anxious features, “Listen to me Y/N, it wasn’t human. Not anymore. Not for a long time.”

Sniffling, you nodded.

“What you did was very brave,” he added. Palms rising to caringly cup your face, he suppressed the desire to admonish the foolishness of your act in the same sentence. He guiltily believed his life wasn’t worth the price you paid in the form of the black mark now marring your soul. Good, evil, accidental, justified – unfortunately the motive for taking a life and the nature of the life taken don’t matter in the accounting of deeds recorded upon the soul.

A tear sprang to life from the corner of your eye to meander jaggedly down your pallid cheek. Brave – it wasn’t the word you would choose. _Not brave_ , you thought, blinking another tear into existence, _terrified. Terrified of losing you_.

Cas smeared the salty drops across your skin with a sweep of his thumbs. The angel understood better than most that brave and terrified sometimes meant the same thing. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered the gravelly promise, winding his arms securely about you to squeeze you tight. He meant it.

“Well, would you look at the two little lovebirds.” Crowley cooed, stepping forth from an unobserved corner. “Doesn’t it just make you want to spend a carefree sordid afternoon peeling the unsullied flesh off a screaming virgin?” The demon congratulated himself with an extra cocky swagger in his gait at having startled the brothers with his unexpected entrance for the second time in a week. His grin arrogantly stretched even wider at evidently having also astounded the angel. “What? No one else? Humph.”

Dean audibly groaned, “I see you’re still on the bird kick.”

Crowley curtly bowed at the elder Winchester – he greatly appreciated Dean’s continued annoyed interest.

Cas spun to protectively shield you with his body, angel blade materializing ready in hand.

“Sammy, I told you if you said his name three times in a row he’d show up,” Dean grumbled.

Sam reflexively reached into his jacket, fingers fondling the handle of the demon blade protruding from an inside pocket.

“Now, now, boys. No need for knives,” Crowley wagged a reproaching finger, “we’re all friends here, aren’t we?” He worryingly caught your eye and winked.

An involuntary tremor wracked your frame as you clung to Cas.

“Try again,” Dean’s lip curled into a snarl.

“Comrades in arms?” Crowley proposed, grin gradually dispersing from his mouth at the unanswered silence. “Business associates then,” he conceded. “And as such, enough with the inane formalities. I’m here to collect my prize as per our arrangement.”

“We haven’t found the box,” Sam sidled sideways, shifting his position so that Crowley was surrounded, forcing the demon to split his watchfulness in three directions. Sam’s statement was the truth. After disposing of the demons, the brothers and the angel had spent the morning combing over every inch and rifling through every nook and cranny of the house and surrounding gardens in search of anything ancient, odd, or eminently powerful – coming up empty handed.

Crowley’s mocking scowl fixed on Dean, “Your brother really is as daft as he looks, isn’t he?”

Sam scoffed at the demon’s turned back.

“There’s nothing here,” Cas growled in defense of Sam, and to draw Crowley’s concentration.

“Isn’t there?” the self-satisfied grin reemerged on Crowley’s mouth. Thrusting his hands idly into his pockets, he elaborated, pacing in a small circle, “You know those age old manuscripts can be actual _hell_ to translate, especially when the author gets a bit self-indulgent writing the more florid narratives.”

Cas’ eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?” he adjusted the grip on his weapon with a deft flick of the wrist to maintain Crowley’s undivided attention. In his periphery, the angel observed Dean retrieve demon trap handcuffs from a pocket and hide them behind his back while Sam masked the tinny clink of the metal chain by pretending to clumsily stumble on some pots and pans strewn on the floor.

Unruffled by the noise, Crowley smirked sinisterly, “Box, container, vessel…human.” He glanced about, unashamedly savoring the range of appalled emotions in your individual reactions to the implication. Composing his gratified sneer into a prim grin, he went on, “Trifling details if you ask my opinion. They’re all created with an empty space on the inside meant to hold something.”

“Human?” Sam darted his eyes in your direction.

“I didn’t know what to expect, not at first. What with the translation troubles and the general ineptitude of my staff,” Crowley pressed his lips thin in contrived remorse, “that’s where you boys came in. Call it outsourcing.” Withdrawing his hands from his pockets, he clasped them somberly behind his back.

“What do we have to do with any of this?” Sam baited.

“You and Foghorn Leghorn over there? Next to nothing. But Chicken Little, your very own _sky is falling_ angel, was the key to everything,” Crowley’s covetous red gaze fell upon you, “to unlocking the limits of her potential.”

Castiel raised his weapon, a surging glow of menacing grace glimmering behind his eyes.

Dean seized the distracting demonstration of power as a chance to leap forward and shackle Crowley’s wrists.

“You Winchesters,” Crowley griped, not bothering to test the restraint, “always such gentlemen.” Sam dragged a chair over and Dean shoved the demon roughly into the seat. Grunting, Crowley quipped, “At least buy a girl dinner first.”

“I don’t understand,” you pulled at Cas’ sleeve, “what does he mean? My potential?”

“Oh darling, you’re the proverbial forbidden fruit,” Crowley purred, “plump, ripe for the picking, and teeming with angelic juices by the seedy smell of it. Your paramour’s father forbade angels to have intimate relations with humans,” he winked provocatively at Cas, “but lover boy here wasn’t thinking with his halo gilded head when he met you, was he?”

“Enough!” Cas growled. Lunging at the demon, he coarsely grabbed a clump of hair in his fist, yanking backward to press the point of the angel blade into the soft pocket of flesh beneath his smugly set jaw. “You’re wrong. The forbidden fruit is a fable. There is no such object in creation.”

“I thought the forbidden fruit was an apple,” Dean kidded.

“No, I think it was a pomegranate,” Sam jibed.

“What’s with the fig leaves then?” Dean rounded an eyebrow, crudely waving in the vicinity of his crotch.

“The angel is right, it was never an object,” Crowley spat through clenched teeth, “it was merely an idea. A seed of thought planted to flourish into fruit to feed temptation and fuel a revolution of sin. But don’t worry, I’m not interested in any of her fleshy bits saturated with your angelic stink. You’re free to keep those. I only want that nurturing organ of life, her heart. The souls I can lead astray with that most forbidden of loves it contains…mmm…”

Eyes aglow, Cas dug the tip of the blade further into the demon’s neck, the piercing of skin producing a rivulet of red.

“Of course, I’m sure any passing resemblance of these lush gardens to Eden are purely coincidental,” Crowley hissed.

“Castiel,” grasping the angel by the elbow to gentle his rage, you bade him look at you, “stop. No more death.”

Cas reluctantly released the victoriously grinning demon.

“Not yet anyway,” you glared at Crowley until his grin faltered. “What makes you so certain I’m this terrible temptation?”

Crowley peered, in turn, into the glowering faces of the Winchesters and wallowed for a second in the wrath simmering within the angel’s aspect before returning his decorously cowed courtesies to you, “Well, there’s the trivial matter of the spell. And then X marks the spot. Or in this case, a tailor-made blood banishment sigil leading directly to a particular angel’s special someone. Conveniently, I knew just the unwitting angel for the job.”

“So you used Cas?” Dean asked, exhaling contemptuously through his nose.

“Hello, have we met?” the demon rolled his beady eyes, “Crowley, King of Hell.”

“Because he was convenient?” Sam reproached.

“Remind me again why you sad sacks of man meat are so surprised?” the demon jeered.

“I say we kill him now and call it a day,” Dean shrugged indifferently.

“What kind of a moron do you take me for?” Crowley barked. “Kill me, and you can expect the whole host of Heaven to come calling when the sun sets.” He smirked, “Call it a dead man’s switch.”

You met Cas’ despondent gaze, a sense of dread pitting your stomach.

“Then we run, hide you two in the bunker until we can figure something out,” Sam suggested.

“And where do you think they’ll go searching first?” Crowley sassed.

“So we make a stand, it’s not like we haven’t kicked angelic ass before,” Dean advocated.

“When they find out their favorite black sheep has been buggering Little Bo Peep, you can bet they won’t be sending in the lowly choir boys to sing his praises,” Crowley countered. “I’m not the only party interested in bending this power to my advantage.”

Gazing resolutely into your angel’s despairing blue eyes, your lips moved without feeling, tongue torpid and thick against the roof of your mouth, the fateful words echoing in your ears like a distant thunder as you spoke, “The spell, can it be reversed?”

“Ay,” Crowley sneered, “there’s the rub.”

“How?” you asked, voice cracking dryly.

Cas’ chin dropped to his chest, stature visibly sinking.

“No,” Dean interceded, his heart aching at the sight of his crestfallen friend, “we’ll find another way.”

Your timorous fingertips ghosted the white-knuckles of the angel’s clinched fist, begging his support with a humble thought. _This is bigger than you and I_.

Palm opening to accept yours, his desolate gaze slowly lifted to look at the leering demon. Even though he held your hand tight and felt the warmth of your skin on his, he sensed you slipping away. Brave and terrified, he raspingly repeated your question, “How?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Crowley crooned.

The solution was excruciatingly simple – the very same banishment sigil wrought from Castiel’s angelic blood which had delivered him to you would, upon being completed with the nourishing ebb of life flowing in your veins, banish him cruelly from your heart and break the power of the spell.

* * * * *

 _One final minute_. One more loving embrace. One more tearful kiss. One more gentle healing caress of angelic grace to relieve the sting of the knife gashing the pale palm held upturned in wavering hands. One more swim in the unfathomable depths of a watery sea of celestial blue. One more bask in the radiant warmth of a beautiful soul. And one final fond smile exchanged as your bleeding palm sparks upon the sigil to flood the space with blindingly bright white light; because, once upon a time, for a brief while, you belonged to each other. And no one, not on Earth, nor in Heaven or Hell, not anyone in the whole of the universe, can take those cherished minutes from you.

Sam caught you as you slumped slowly to the floor. Ripped from the room and excised raggedly from your heart, Castiel was gone, leaving you alone to tend to your gardens and nurse the nameless aching emptiness haunting your heart that you longed to fill with something beautiful.

The angel stirred at the noisome insistence of the phone vibrating in his pocket, or perhaps it was the rank smell clinging to the general air which roused him. Either way, sitting upright in a sluice of flotsam, he found himself embedded in a steaming pile of garbage on a transport barge slinking, he surmised from the distant New York City skyline, somewhere along the Hudson River. Most likely, he supposed, en route to New Jersey for ultimate disposal. Politely bobbing his chin in apology to the suspiciously squawking sleep-disturbed seagull situated several feet to his left, he squinted at the multiple texts from Dean:

_Where are you?_

_Why do you own a phone if you never use it?_

_I’m telling Sam to take you off the family plan when we get home. The concept of unlimited texts is lost on you._

_ARE YOU OKAY?_

Slime-covered thumbs poised over the screen, the angel considered his reply before typing. He wasn’t certain how he’d come to rest on the barge. His vessel appeared to be physically intact save for a smoldering patch or two of trench coat and riotously refuse tousled hair. His grace was depleted by such a negligible degree that any dip in power went absolutely unnoticed by him. Looking down for visual confirmation of this interpreted fineness, he plucked from his lapel a curious cluster of sweetly fragrant charred cerulean blooms. On objective examination, he deemed himself okay. Yet something indiscernible in the dull beat of his angelic heart gave him the distinctly opposite impression. Glancing around in search of an elusive answer, his regard elevated from the tiny flowers in his grasp to the gloomy rain-threatening clouds above. He caught sight of the dying glimmer of a solitary star shining through and then consumed by the thickening haze. Lightning dazzlingly engulfed the sky for an instant in a myriad splendor of violently churning azure and indigo. Fat droplets of cold rain unleashing from the heavens to pelt his upturned face, the angel could not shake the feeling something precious had been lost to him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happily, the universe and Dean Winchester are as fond of second chances as they are of a long-suffering blue-eyed seraph.

Sam blinked strained eyes over the screen of his laptop to fire a consternate gaze at his brother seated opposite. Dean wasn’t doing anything annoying per say. In the past hour, he’d uttered no weird observations, embarked on no pointless tirades, lobbed no undeserved fraternal insults, and engaged in no repetitive irritating clicking, tapping, or drumming noises. He hadn’t even mentioned being hungry, and Sam was fairly certain he heard the distinct rumble of an empty stomach once or twice in the eerie silence. This unusual well-mannered behavior on Dean’s part, was, in and of itself, exquisitely maddening and Sam had reached the breaking point of brotherly tolerance. “Stop it!” he breathily commanded.

“What?” Dean abruptly ceased his pursuit of doing nothing at all to respond, startled, to Sam’s unprovoked demand.

“That!” Sam answered. “Thinking. Stop it.”

“It’s just, I can’t believe we let Crowley walk after what he did to Cas,” Dean freed the persistently nagging thought from the confines of his skull.

“I know, but it was Cas’ call. And he made a valid point. The devil you know…”

“Yeah, yeah, is worth two in the bush,” Dean blustered.

“That’s not how the saying goes,” Sam’s lip twisted in amusement. “A bird in the hand…”

“Enough with the damn birds already!” Dean groused. His green eyes glazed somberly, “You really think Cas doesn’t remember anything? I mean, when he called he didn’t ask about the missing chunk of time when he was with her. It’s like he doesn’t know it’s gone.”

“I guess that’s how the reversal of the spell works,” Sam murmured, “clean slate.”

“She was good for him, you know,” Dean stated.

Sam nodded agreement.

“I can’t believe a connection like that just ends,” Dean continued, reflecting on the dull anguish that dogged in his own heart any time something reminded him of his stint at normal with Lisa. Letting Lisa go, that had been Dean’s choice to protect her and Ben. But you and Cas, you were given no real choice – you were fatefully thrust into each other’s lives by a demon’s spell and cruelly torn asunder to protect the world from an unspeakable struggle for power like some unfeeling puppeteer’s playthings.

“It’s not fair,” Sam observed with a frown, the memory of Jess misting his vision, “but then nothing about this life we lead is.”

The metallic clang of the bunker door lock disengaging heralded their friend’s homecoming.

“Speak of the angel,” Dean cleared his throat roughly, cautioning a return to silence on the matter.

“Hey Cas!” Sam wore a welcoming smile.

Cas disregarded Sam’s warm greeting, plodding heavily down the stairs.

“What’s up buddy?” Dean tried.

The ceiling, the sky, sea levels, neighborhood crime rates, the S&P 500 – Dean would have preferred any of these answers over the solemn shrug of the seraph’s shoulders he received.

As he trudged through the library, Cas delivered a plastic grocery bag into Sam’s lap. Shunning the available chairs at the table where the brothers sat, the angel sank heavily into the leather lounge nestled out of the way in the alcove of shelves.

Sam reached into the rustling bag, confusion distorting his features as he pulled out a single roll of Charmin brand extra soft toilet paper. “Uh, thanks?” he slurred, lifting a bewildered brow at Dean.

Waving a dismissive hand, Dean aped complete ignorance. “How was New Jersey?” he flashed an affable grin at the angel.

“The solid waste incineration facility there was delightfully efficient,” Cas replied in a sarcastic disinterested monotone. “The operations manager in particular was very kind in permitting me a so-called one-time pass for stealing a ride on his transport barge. According to him, people have been arrested over far less serious crimes against humanity’s rubbish and I should consider myself extremely lucky.” The stern set of his jaw hinted at his preference not to be harassed further by the mundanity of small talk.

An awkward hush descended on the room.

Sam returned to his research.

Cas morosely folded inward on himself, haunted by that hollow unidentifiable aching void afflicting his celestial heart.

And Dean, Dean decided he had had enough. Clapping his hands sharply upon the table for emphasis and to signify the degree of his doneness, he rose, announcing, “Enough! That’s it! I’m done!”

Sam flinched at the sudden reversal of conduct, lanky legs kicking out in all directions under the table to slide his chair backward several squealing inches. He reflexively slammed the cover of the laptop shut.

Cas glanced up indifferently, met Sam’s stunned gaping mien and squinted one eye in a manner inaudibly inquiring as to whether or not he should be alarmed by Dean’s outburst.

Sam’s lips flared over his clenched teeth suggesting, in answer, that he had absolutely no idea but the odds hovered around 50/50.

“Do you hear me?” Dean boomed, shaking a fist at the ceiling.

“Kind of hard not to when you’re yelling and we’re sitting right here,” Sam griped.

“I’m done! Done with the universe dicking us around. Dammit all, and damn Crowley to Hell!” Dean sucked in a deep breath and pointed a cautioning finger at Sam, “And I know that’s a totally redundant statement, so shut your pie-hole smarty pants.”

“Okay, okay,” Sam held up an outstretched palm endeavoring to reason with his brother, “just sit down and relax and we’ll talk it out.”

“That’s just it, I’m done relaxing. Done talking. Done accepting the crap shoveled our way. Why shouldn’t Cas get the chance to screw up his happy ending all on his own like the rest of us? After all the sacrifice, one of us deserves a fighting chance. And maybe it’s the angel.”

Cas’ sad blue eyes settled attentively on the universe railing Winchester.

“Come on,” Dean rounded the table to grab the brooding angel by the coat sleeve and haul him to his feet, “you’re going on vacation. And don’t give me some snarky line about how angels don’t take vacations.”

Cas shook free of Dean’s boorish grip, smoothed his rumpled sleeve, and unassumingly asked, “Where?”

“To get back something very important you lost.”

Cas exhaled the shaky breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in since the moment you banished him.

The hammock, peacefully slung in the dappled shade between two cottonwoods by the lakeshore, rocked subtly as you dozed in the late afternoon heat lulled by the cheery twittering song of goldfinches as they flitted about in a nearby mass of coneflowers picking the delicious seeds from the drying flower heads. It was the strident flap of their wings in fearful flight which alerted you to the presence of the stranger abiding calmly beside the hammock. Shielding your eyes with your upturned hand, you made out the form of a dark-haired, trench coat wearing, handsome, strikingly blue-eyed man staring apologetically down at you with the halo of the sun behind his head.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he hadn’t meant to wake you – coming upon your peacefully drowsing figure he felt like he saw an apparition – something shimmering golden and bright just out of his grasp. He lingered too long in his reverie, captivated by the sun-freckled glow of your skin, and unintentionally roused you. He swept a hand towards the cottage, “No one answered at the door.”

“You don’t say?” you mocked shock, a half-grin betraying you as you swung out of the hammock and landed squarely on your feet. “That’s probably because whomever lives there is lazily sleeping away the afternoon somewhere comfy. Guess it’s a good thing you dropped in out of nowhere to save what’s left of the day.”

“I drove.”

“What?”

“I didn’t drop in, I _drove_ ,” he insisted earnestly.

You failed to stifle a bubbling laugh, “Oh, my mistake.”

He cocked his head curiously, an unexpected surge of pleasant heat rising in his chest to flush his cheeks at the heartwarming quality of your laughter. He continued, “I’m renting the Holmes’ place. Well, my friend Dean actually rented it for me. He insisted I needed to do some soul-searching and that this was the very place to do it in.” He didn’t mention the fact that he was an angel and didn’t actually have a soul to search. And anyway, when he confronted Dean with this very same point, Dean had accused him of being too literal for his own damn good.

“Dean? As in Sam and Dean Winchester?” you asked.

“You know them?” he did not disguise the surprise in his husky tone.

“You could say that,” you held up a bandaged hand for him to see. “Strangest thing happened last week. I guess I cut myself pretty badly with pruning shears and fainted. I don’t really remember it happening, but luckily Sam and Dean were hiking the shore trail, heard me cry out, and came running to the rescue. Anyway,” you brushed off the odd experience that never sat comfortably in your memory whenever you thought about it, “I must be boring you. You probably just want to pick up the keys to get on with your vacation. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow. What did you do, drive all night?”

He bobbed his head affirmatively, replying, “I don’t sleep.” Adding sincerely because, for some fleeting reason he couldn’t quite pin down, he truly didn’t, “I don’t find you boring at all.”

You laughed again, starting up toward the cottage by way of the gardens.

He closely followed.

“Can I interest you in a cup of tea?” you proposed, glancing hopefully over your shoulder. Something about his endearingly awkward demeanor thrummed your heartstrings.

“I would like that very much,” his tongue accepted the offer before his mind processed the question. As it turned out, he happened to agree wholeheartedly with his tongue.

“By the way, I’m Y/N,” you wondered how you’d gotten this far into a conversation without the practical subject of names arising.

“Castiel. Or Cas, if you prefer.”

“Castiel,” you repeated, “it’s a beautiful name.”

He thought it sounded more beautiful to him when spoken by you. “Thank you,” he bashfully dropped his regard to the stony ground between his feet.

“I’ll be right back,” you smiled at his shyness, “going to put the water on for tea.” You left him to wander the cobblestone paths through the garden alone.

Meandering up the winding path, a patch of blue in the shade of the porch keenly drew his notice. Walking nearer, he bent to graze his fingertips lightly over the delicate perfumed sea of cerulean petals.

“Periwinkle,” you whispered. Coming up beside him, you crouched, touching his shoulder for balance, to pick a tiny bouquet.

He straightened, angelic heart bounding at the memory of the fragile burned flower mysteriously in his possession on the barge and how it and he came to be there.

You twisted the plucked bloom between two fingers, a kindling spark of recognition illuminating in your expression. “You know, they’re almost a perfect match for your eyes,” you noted with a wistful smile. Tracing quivering fingers along the inside of his coat lapel, tears and recollection glinting in your eyes, you threaded the stem through a button hole, and patted the fabric to lay flat.

Castiel thought of the solitary star he saw in the sky that terrible night, gleaming and consumed by the gathering storm. _No_ , he realized now, _not a light consumed by the dark – a beacon shining bright and forever beyond the clouds_. He would spend eternity always making his way back to that light – to you. Clasping your hands tenderly within his trembling fingers, he pressed them to his heart.


End file.
